


Covington Marshes Bylaws, Section 13.D: Community Rules for Hauntings

by samanthahirr



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), American Idol, Kris Allen (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Community: kradam_kiss, Drag Queens, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New Orleans, Panic Attacks, Voodoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-11
Updated: 2010-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-08 20:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 50,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samanthahirr/pseuds/samanthahirr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When an evil spirit takes up residence in Kris's New Orleans condo, Kris avoids going home at night by hooking up at the local gay club. But when he gets involved with one of the club's performers, he gets a lot more than a place to spend the night.</i>
</p><p>"You're sleeping in your car."<br/>"...yeah," Kris tries not to sound defensive.<br/>"Outside a gay bar at 2 a.m."<br/>"Yeah."<br/>"You really don't have any place to go, do you?"<br/>"No, I do, I just. I can't go back there at night," Kris admits softly, unable to meet Adam's eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eerie movie poster by the incomparable [katekat](http://katekat.dreamwidth.org/).

 

**Playlist:** [Read and download the playlist.](http://samanthahirr.livejournal.com/352.html)

  
Kris doesn't expect a lot from his new home. He's optimistic about his new city—selling his music, meeting new people, and putting his old life behind him—but he knew when he moved down here not to expect great things from a foreclosed condo he'd bought sight-unseen. It's taken a few weeks of hard labor, but he's actually made it pretty decent; he's painted over the graffiti the squatters left and deep-cleaned the rugs, he's started rebuilding the broken shelves in the bedroom, and he's hoping to save up some money to deal with the water-damage under the cracked bathroom tiles before the new year.

His meager income is still novel, still feels like the badge of honor of a professional musician. The studio's been promising him that session work will pick up by the end of summer, and in the meantime he picks up spare cash busking downtown or around his neighborhood. Being perpetually short on cash makes it hard to meet people, but he's finally in a city with an actual gay scene, so he's confident things on that front will start happening soon. All in all, he has a good feeling about his new life.

Until things start happening at home.

The first time he wakes up in the morning to find things not the way he left them—papers scattered all over the living room—he blames the rotating fan. But the fan couldn't have overturned the stack of Tupperware on the countertop four nights later. Kris is confused, even slightly alarmed, but he isn't comfortable talking about it with his coworkers; he needs to keep that studio connection. He can't even talk to his old friends in Arkansas, since Katy got most of them in the divorce, and the others just wanna hear how wild the parties are in New Orleans. And no, they don't mean the gay ones.

So Kris keeps his mouth shut and his eyes peeled.

The infrequent happenings escalate to _attacks_ in his third month. He wakes up in the middle of the night to a feeling of complete helplessness; something is on him, holding him down. His limbs are frozen; he can't speak or move because of _it_, the presence on top of him. He can't look at the clock, so the only sense of time is his jack-hammering pulse. And he's the only thing that's frozen, because something else is moving, making _sounds_. Books fall off shelves, a bottle rolls across the kitchen floor. The curtains blow in front of the closed—and freshly resealed—bedroom window, moving just enough that he can catch them at the edge of his vision. Worst of all is the overwhelming malevolence, the knowledge that something wants to hurt him. It's _going _to hurt him….

The attacks happen three times in two weeks, and after the third Kris can't take being there anymore. His solution for a cheap night away from home is to go out to Simon's and find someone to take him home. He doesn't go back to his place until the morning. He does it again the next night, but hookups aren't really in his nature. He can't do it the third night in a row—he's not a slut, no matter what his ex-wife said about him in the depositions, and he's hating how he's feeling about himself. He stays home that night.

And it happens _again_. He can almost feel the thing breathing on his face while he's pinned to the mattress, his body unresponsive as his mind screams at him to protect himself, to fight back, to _run_. The feeling of threat gradually passes, the paralysis wears off between one heartbeat and the next, and Kris spends the rest of the night locked in his bathroom, terrified of his bed and of closing his eyes in that condo again.

In the morning, he knows he's on the verge of a breakdown. Even though it's been strictly benign in daylight, he flees the condo—goes to a crowded mall and sits there all Sunday drinking coffee and keeping his quiet freak out to himself. When it starts to get dark out, he heads to Simon's again and looks for someone he can spend the night with. He lands a good prospect, spends the night buying drinks for both of them. But it ends with a blowjob in the bathroom and no invitation home. Kris tries inviting himself over, but the guy is a tourist with a wife waiting at the hotel, and the asshole laughs and leaves without him.

Kris heads back out to the bar proper, humiliated and desperate to find another option other than his own bed. It's past last call, and there aren't many choices left in the bar, certainly not many that look particularly safe or palatable. His best prospect is a guy who at least seems to know the staff; he's chatting with the short, chick bartender with the butch haircut and eyebrow piercings. Kris thinks he recognizes him from another night, so hopefully that means he isn't a tourist.

Kris slides onto the bar stool next to his target and orders himself a whiskey, giving the bartender a puppy dog face when she says sorry, the bar's closed. "How about one for me, one for you, and one for this guy right here?" he offers.

She looks from Kris to the tall, broad-shouldered guy on the stool next to him and shakes her head again, but this time with a you've-got-some-fucking-balls smile. Three glasses are lined up and filled with different liquors, and she's carried her drink and Kris's $20 off to the other end of the bar before the guy even acknowledges Kris by looking his way.

And. Oh.

He's tall, yeah. Dyed-black hair shaggy around his face, elegant black eyebrows, piercing blue eyes, and black eyeliner. And Kris is…

Well, Kris is only attracted to masculine types. He's never felt comfortable around the gays who wear makeup or women's clothes. It's…not his thing.

So he's just bought a drink for a guy in eyeliner, who's staring down at him with a blank expression just waiting for Kris to say something. Kris picks up his drink and takes a quick glance around the room for anyone he'd feel more comfortable with, but no, this guy still looks like the safest bet.

"Hi," Kris says nervously.

"Hi, yourself."

Humor is usually a good way to break the ice. He starts out with the lamest pickup line he knows. "Come here often?"

The guy doesn't even blink. "You could say that."

Kris gulps half of the whiskey and swishes the taste of semen out of his mouth. _Nice makeup_, he doesn't say, but it's close. "This is a great place."

"Uh huh."

"I'm Kris. Kristopher. What's your name?"

"Adam," he says, taking a sip of his orange vodka.

"Adam. Nice to meet you."

Adam doesn't shake his outstretched hand.

Kris tries to ignore the not-interested vibes the guy is throwing off. "You from the area?"

"I live here," he allows.

Wow, he's really getting nothing from this guy. Outside, the night is black and threatening, so Kris spins his half-full glass on the bar and asks, "You here with anybody else, or…."

Adam smirks and shakes his head, and finally asks a question in return: "Jesus, you're a desperate little twink, aren't you?"

Kris freezes. "What?"

"I'm not your first guy tonight, or even your tenth this week."

Kris shifts on his stool to cover the flinch. The guy's count is off, but the accusation hits home. "You think so?"

"I'm not blind."

No, he wouldn't be with those bright blue eyes. The longer he looks at Adam, the more familiar he seems. Kris wouldn't be surprised if Adam's been here every night he hooked up this week. "Congratulations," Kris says, like he doesn't care what anyone thinks about his sexual activities. "See anything you like?"

"I haven't decided yet," Adam says.

"Don't take all night."

Adam hums into his glass and looks at some of the other patrons as though sizing up his own options. Kris swallows his pride and smiles harder, stretching his arms behind his head to flex his muscles. Adam's eyes cut back immediately and he licks his lips.

They head out to the parking lot when the club closes down, and Adam stands too close and says, "So, where to?"

"Your place," Kris says firmly.

"Uh huh," Adam cocks an eyebrow, unsurprised and unimpressed. "Then you're driving."

The ride to Metairie is quiet and tense. Kris's skin crawls as he watches the road, unable to see Adam with the passenger seat pushed all the way back to accommodate long legs. The few times he looks over his shoulder, Adam is watching him with an unreadable expression.

They get all the way up to his apartment before Adam _finally_ makes things easy, pulling off Kris's t-shirt and hauling him in close by his upper arms as soon as the door is locked behind them. Kris leans up on his toes to reach his mouth, bites Adam's lip until the tall man lowers his head for a better angle. Kris flexes his biceps under Adam's hands, and Adam groans, squeezes tighter and sticks his tongue in Kris's mouth, leaning in to seal them together.

It's fucking hot; a guy that big, with that much attitude, wanting him that bad. Kris doesn't even care about the eyeliner anymore. He tries to catch his breath, but Adam's tongue is pushing and stroking in exactly the right way to get to his cock. He gets his arms in between them and starts unbuckling Adam's shiny zebra-striped belt, unbuttoning and unzipping the tight grey jeans, and if he's jumped way ahead in the evening's program, he can't make himself slow down or even care.

Adam is all over him with his hands—wide, uncallused hands that can cover a lot of skin, sliding over Kris's chest and back, his neck. Adam's making more sounds than Kris would have expected just from rubbing on pecs and abs, but Kris is making noises too, needy whimpers he's never made in the state of Louisiana, possibly not even Arkansas or Tennessee. He wedges a hand into Adam's pants and finds a cock just as big as the rest of him, cut and hard, hot in his hand because Adam's going commando tonight. Every night? _Christ._

"Fuck," Adam pants, kneading Kris's shoulders as he squeezes Adam's cock. Kris's hips buck against Adam's and Adam laughs into his ear before moaning and pulling Kris's face up again for another suffocating kiss. Kris holds on and tries to keep jacking his hand, but it's getting overwhelming, and when his knees want to give out he drops smoothly to the carpet, dragging those jeans down with him. Adam's cock bobs free with a sharp inhalation above him and Kris leans in, drawn like a magnet, mouth already opening to taste.

"Oh my god, you're not even-" Adam moans, but his hands are under Kris's armpits and he's lifting him to his feet for another kiss, which feels like backtracking, and Kris tries to squirm out of his grip so he can get back to where he wants to be. "Bed. Now." Adam punctuates the command with a kiss and then manhandles Kris around so he's facing the bedroom door, starts forcing Kris forward with his hips, his hands looped around his waist to undo Kris's jeans. And okay, Kris can get behind this kind of forward momentum.

Adam stops him unexpectedly in the doorway, leaning in closer and wrenching harder at his jeans.

"Kristopher," he whispers in his ear, "I don't care how good these pants look on you; do not wear button-flys to a club ever again."

Kris laughs and tries to help, sucking in his stomach and sliding his fingers under the waistband alongside Adam's fingers, but that just seems to slow things down even more because Adam starts sucking on his throat and forgets about the pants entirely. Kris swats Adam's hands out of the way so he can get his fucking pants off himself…and then he giggles, because Adam just made it clear that these are _not_ 'fucking pants.'

"What's so funny," Adam purrs, licking the stubble on his jaw against the grain, wet and hot.

"Oh." Kris gives up on the bottom two buttons and just shoves, scraping the denim over his hips and off.

His cock is suddenly a lot happier and getting harder under Adam's magic fingers. They're sliding his boxers down, lifting the elastic carefully over his cock until he's completely free, and Adam looks over Kris's shoulder and says, "There you are," and gives him a very friendly handshake with an extra firm grip.

"God," Kris chokes, his hips stuttering forward. Adam steps on the jeans between his ankles and nudges him forward again, and Kris can feel the hard cock against his lower back. He stumbles, kicking out of his pants and underwear and shoes, heading for the oversized bed with the tangle of black sheets and pillowcases, Adam kicking off his own jeans behind him. Kris climbs on and crawls to the middle, rolls over to sit and gives Adam a hot grin, waiting for him.

"Of all the tight guys on the floor tonight, who'd've pegged you for my lucky number," Adam says, like he's asking himself a question he can't answer.

Kris gives it to him, crooking his finger and beckoning him forward. Adam pulls his scoop-necked t-shirt over his head and comes for him, crawling up so he can kiss Kris again, braced on his arms as he rocks their hips together.

"I'm gonna fuck you so good," he promises, and Kris believes him, whimpers. Jesus, it's getting hard to focus again, all that skin, and Adam big and gorgeous. Kris slides one hand up the back of Adam's sweaty neck and the other down to grope at his ass, pull him in tighter where Kris can rub against him. Adam bites Kris's lower lip with a playful nip and pulls his head away, smiling down with a self-satisfied smirk. "Oh yeah," he says when Kris's brow furrows a question, and then he starts sliding down, tonguing Kris's chin, his jaw, his throat, sucking on his Adam's apple and twisting at his nipples.

Kris groans and bucks, half-begs, "Adam," because he's burning up with the need to get fucked _right now_ and Adam is taking the slow way there.

"Shh," Adam says against his body, nipping at the thin skin over his collarbone, holding himself up and away from Kris's aching cock, giving him no friction to work with. He keeps up the torture, licking down to his left nipple and starting off with a slow, strong suck before biting at the tip, licking around the outside in a swirl. Kris is too sensitive for that and his hips twist. He makes a grab for Adam's black hair to pull him up, pull him back on course, but Adam sees him coming, shoots him a gloating look and catches his wrists, shoves them down into the mattress as he sprawls on top of him, hips weighing down his thighs, stomach flat and hard against his cock, and Kris bucks in earnest, his back arching off the bed as he fights for freedom, for his life, the dark room closing in, darkness that moves over and around him, cutting off his air, freezing his lungs in place, and he opens his mouth as he struggles against it, screams "NO! NO!" swinging with all his might to break its hold.

It backs off fast, releases Kris's wrists and backpedals off the bed. Kris's arms flail wildly at nothing for a few seconds before he opens his eyes and gasps frantically for air, gaze unexpectedly landing on Adam's stunned face.

Kris gradually comes down from the adrenaline spike, and embarrassment fills the void it leaves behind.

Adam jerks his gaze away, turns to grab up his grey jeans from the doorway. Once he has pants on he faces Kris again and says, "I think you should go home now," in a shaky voice.

"I can't," Kris chokes, chest still tight, eyes wet.

"You obviously don't wanna stay here."

"I'm sorry, I just…"

Adam stares at Kris, hunched over naked on the bed, and announces, "I need a drink," and wanders out of the bedroom.

Kris scrambles off the bed and grabs up his own pants, muttering the filthiest curses he knows as he tugs them up. He picks his t-shirt up by the front door and hesitates. Adam is moving around the kitchen, ignoring him, pouring a tall glass from a tall bottle, throwing in a lot of ice.

Kris's fingers shake and slip on the hemline of his shirt before he balls it up, too hot already in his own skin, and advances into the barely defined eating space, the small square table wedged under the breakfast bar. "Do you mind…."

Adam shoots him a suspicious look, but Kris just licks his lip and gestures to the bottle on the counter. "Shit, why not. You probably need it," Adam says with an exaggerated shrug, like it's nothing out of the ordinary for one of his hookups to have a fucking panic attack under him. They trade places, carefully circling each other to prevent contact as Kris steps into the kitchen and Adam takes a seat at the table.

Kris pours himself a short glass of white rum—ouch—and opens the fridge looking for something to cut it. He finds orange juice, holds it up for permission before pouring. He takes his glass to the table and sits in the chair against the wall, facing the door. Not facing Adam. Kris takes a bracing sip, lets the alcohol burn away the metallic taste of fear so he can say, "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Adam says, not looking at him either.

And what the hell else does Kris want from him? Why isn't he slinking back to his car at this very moment? He's just seriously screwed up Adam's night—the guy doesn't look like he'll be able to sleep for hours, long fingers trembling just slightly on his glass, clinking the ice.

"That hasn't…happened before," he offers.

"It's cool," Adam says, "some guys feel safer on their knees, whatever. Your choice."

"That's not what I…." Kris sighs and takes a bigger gulp of the rum and juice.

Silence takes a seat at the table, and Kris must be out of his mind to still be sitting here, unwelcome, in Adam's home. The last thing he wants to do is force a confrontation.

"_So_, what brings you to the Big Easy?" Adam suddenly asks, bright and fake and offering a way out of this _Huis Clos_.

Kris gapes for a second, and then clears his throat and smiles at the living room gamely, "Divorce, Debt, and Music. In that order."

Adam's eyebrows go up. "Wow. Meaty. Sounds like you've got a story there, Kristopher."

"Yeah, not so much."

"Oh do tell," he says in a feminine lilt, playing the vamp. "I've got at least half an hour before I really feel this one and I could use the distraction," Adam gestures with his glass before swallowing down three big gulps.

Kris winces and tells himself he deserves this for freaking the guy out so bad. He pulls the third chair closer and props his legs up, leans forward to unstick his sweaty skin from the wooden back of the chair, settles more comfortably. "Tell you what, let's start over. Hi Adam, I'm Kris." He sticks his right hand out, keeps holding it out, waiting for Adam to let go of his glass and shake it.

Adam eventually rolls his eyes and obliges. "So what's your story, Kris?"

And for lack of anything else to talk about, Kris puts his life story out there. The fresh divorce that should've happened three years sooner—before he'd discovered he was more into guys than he was his wife, before she'd started racking up credit card debt out of revenge, and before he'd started stepping out to clubs out of bitterness. And how when it was finally over, they sold their house in Arkansas and split the small profit. They also split the debt.

He's warming to his song-writing ambitions when he gets distracted by the Nashville tangent: the last dream Katy had taken from him in the divorce by moving to Nashville and claiming the whole city off limits.

Adam grins at Kris's wry tone, making Kris feel like he's actually entertaining the guy. Adam offers sympathetic insults to Katy's character, her face, her waistline, whenever Kris pauses to sip his water. The black liner around his right eye has smudged out toward his temple, and Adam's head is nearly down on the table, supported by an elbow leaning way off to the side.

Adam's latest tirade against Southern women with dainty hands and gloves of steel, or vice versa ("Either way, doesn't that metaphor make you think of fisting?"), gets interrupted by a jaw cracking yawn, and he drags himself upright, shaking his head with watering eyes. "Okay, I can't stay awake anymore. You have to go."

"Oh, yeah, sure, sorry." Kris jumps to his feet and almost falls over because his feet and calves are asleep, and the backs of his thighs are tingling. "Fuck," he groans, bent over and shaking his legs out.

"Yeah, no thanks," Adam laughs sleepily, and Kris smiles, not even upset about the humiliating freak out anymore.

With his feet shoved into his shoes and his hand on the doorknob, Kris turns around and says, "Um, for what it's worth…thanks."

Adam yawns and shuffles past on his way to the bedroom, one hand shoving against Kris's shoulder. Kris opens the door and leaves.

Adam's forgiveness rests lightly on his shoulders on the long drive across the lake. The sun isn't up yet, he has the roads mostly to himself at this hour. Even the condo development is silent; he's beat the early morning joggers by traveling in the opposite direction of sleep.

Jesus, is he even making any sense? He probably shouldn't have been driving.

Kris parks in his reserved space out front and shuffles up the covered stairway to his 2nd floor unit, puts his key in the lock and suddenly remembers.

He lets go of the keys. They dangle in the lock, and Kris looks over his shoulder at the pinkish-gray patch of sky where the sun should be. Isn't yet. He looks at the keys swinging slightly as though moving on their own, and he takes a deep breath, tries to dredge up the willpower to go in there, prays for the courage to open the door.

The courage never comes.

After a long minute of staring at the clouds and the keys, Kris sits down on his doormat, tucks his knees under his chin, and closes his eyes to wait for dawn.

****  
  


He spends the next evening back at the club, willing to prostitute himself yet again for a night away from his condo. He's slow to make real headway, though, and then the DJ announces the start of the live entertainment and Kris looks up and recognizes Adam. No wonder why he thought he'd seen him somewhere before...although only the width of his shoulders and those blue eyes are recognizable under the Donna Summer wig, sequined dress slit up and down nearly to _there_, smoky eye shadow, and sparkling red lipstick.

Kris loses interest in the guy he was chatting up, finally paying attention to the drag show. The sound system is for shit; he can barely hear the singing over the Justin Timberlake karaoke recording and the talking around him. He moves closer to the stage and watches for a few minutes, hearing something that might be good...but what he sees is what's really got him. Adam's vamping it up without going full drag, purple dress flapping open over his hairless, flat chest, extra equipment between his legs obvious under the long skirt, a shaved thigh sticking out every time he takes a step, too muscular to be a woman's. It's everything that usually makes Kris uncomfortable, but the way he moves his body reminds Kris of Adam's confidence last night, in the club and at his apartment, before things got completely fucked. And Kris is getting hard standing in the middle of the tiny dance floor watching Adam perform. And it isn't nearly crowded enough for him to go unnoticed.

Kris retreats and watches Adam finish his first set from the anonymity of the back wall. He actually watches the rest of the show, too: the following two performers who each sound way better than Adam, for all that they're feminine to the extreme. He even watches the two additional sets the three of them perform over the next four hours. Until the night is winding down and Kris realizes he hasn't found anyone—hasn't honestly been looking. And now he's pretty much screwed.

He wakes up an hour later with a terrible crick in his neck, disoriented and cold. The sound comes again, a tapping on the glass. He jerks upright and looks up into Adam's naked, cleaned-off face, just inches from the driver's side window. He stares back at the singer for a long minute, trying to catch up.

Adam taps a third time before Kris finally turns the key in the ignition and lowers the window.

"What?"

"You're sleeping in your car."

"...yeah," Kris tries not to sound defensive.

"Outside a gay bar at 2 a.m."

"Yeah."

"You _really_ don't have any place to go, do you?"

"No, I do, I just-" he blurts out too quickly, cuts himself off.

"Then maybe you should try sleeping there. Unless you wanna get mugged or killed," Adam says like he thinks Kris is a complete idiot. Which is possibly spot on, because Kris doesn't know what he's doing with his life anymore, hiding from something supernatural in his condo that he thinks wants to hurt him. "If you can't drive, call a cab or something. Don't sleep out here."

"I can't go back there at night," Kris admits softly, staring at his throat because he's unable to meet Adam's eyes.

Adam raises a skeptical eyebrow and crosses his arms against the wind, in regular street clothes of a t-shirt under a bulky leather jacket. But he shrugs, says, "Okay, well. Suit yourself..." with a half-hearted smile and jerk of his chin.

He turns to walk away, leaving _something_ unsaid, and Kris leans out the window to say, "What?" way too hopefully.

Adam pauses, turns back to the car and his right hand is picking at the dark nail polish on his thumb, his lips pressed in an unhappy line. "Look...you don't seem like the dangerous sort, so. I've got a sofa you can crash on for a few hours, if you're really that hard up..."

And that offer is more than a little humiliating, but to hell with it, Kris doesn't have much pride left. "Ye- Yes. Please. Please, that would be amazing."

Adam looks at him for a long moment, as though considering reconsidering, and then says for the second time, "You're driving," and bends down to pick up his black makeup case.

"Thank you so much," Kris calls as Adam walks around to the passenger side.

****  
  


Things at Adam's spacious apartment are awkward because Kris isn't sure what Adam expects in return, but Adam gives him a blanket and shoves songbooks and clothes off the couch and turns out the light and ignores Kris's repeated protestations of gratitude.

Kris falls asleep immediately, curled on his side, but he wakes up flat on his back, his hands holding the blanket off him as though pushing someone away, sweating and shaking with adrenaline, fear. He can't see anyone in the dim light from the thinly-curtained windows, can't hear anyone moving but himself. And he isn't being restrained at all. The horrible paralysis was just a dream, a nightmare. He rolls onto his side, bites his fist, and tries to calm his heart rate.

His eyes want to droop, want him to drift off as his breathing comes down, but a stray thought chases around the back of his brain and his eyes fly open in panic and it's just not working, being blind in a strange place.

He sits up, fumbles for the side table lamp, and flips it on. The light hurts for a few seconds but then he can see clearly, can make sense of all the shadows in Adam's living room. There's nothing there that can scare him. He lies down again and doesn't remember falling asleep.

It's mid-afternoon the next time Kris wakes up. He hasn't slept like that in _weeks_—a real slumber, for hours and hours. Adam is already awake, already in the _room_, propped against the other end of the couch quietly watching TV on the floor. And that's sunlight, beautiful sunlight glowing through the curtains.

Kris takes a deep breath that must get Adam's attention, because he turns around and says, "Man, you were out like a light."

Kris opens his mouth to apologize for any inconvenience and to thank him again for the place to crash, and then remembers the light he'd turned on last night. He clears his throat and stretches up to turn off the lamp, but the bulb is already dark.

"Yeah, I turned that off a few hours ago. Don't need my power bill getting any higher this month, thanks."

"I-" Kris stammers. "I'm sorry, I didn't think..." Adam scowls, and Kris stops talking because Adam is frowning at himself.

"Fuck, don't. I'm a bitch in the mornings. Forget it."

Kris sits up and smoothes his bunched up t-shirt, pulls the blanket closer to his legs, making room on the sofa if Adam wants it.

Adam turns back to the TV set though, like he's perfectly comfortable on the floor. "So, you afraid of the dark or something?"

"Something like that," Kris says lowly, more to himself than to Adam.

****  
  


He's slept through most of Tuesday, and Kris hurries to check his voicemail in the bathroom, hoping he hasn't missed a session gig offer. There are no messages, thank God. But now he doesn't know what to do with his day.

So he does nothing, literally sitting on Adam's couch all afternoon because Adam doesn't tell him to leave, actually asks him if he wants to watch a movie, like maybe Adam wants company just as much as Kris does. Adam puts on _One Crazy Summer_ followed by _Say Anything_, because Adam had a thing—still has a thing—for young John Cusack and he refuses to be mocked by Kris's careful teasing. Kris doesn't even notice Adam's eyeliner until halfway through the first movie. He seems to have just...gotten used to it.

Adam gives him toast for lunch, and a tuna fish sandwich with pickle slices on it for dinner, ordering him to stop being a baby and eat when he starts pulling off the pickles. The way Adam treats him, it's like they've been friends for years, like he belongs there. And having been alone so long in New Orleans, Kris can't help losing himself in it.

But it couldn't last.

Adam disappears into the bedroom for a while and comes out in a dark blue suit with his black hair slicked back, foundation covering his freckles, and mascara making his blue eyes look huge. What should have made him look feminine instead looks glamorous. Expensive. Kris stares and then stands up, breadcrumbs dropping from his lap. He's overstayed. Adam's going out and he has to leave.

"I've got a show downtown," Adam says to the French cuff of his suit, fingers fastening the cufflinks.

"I'll get out of here," Kris offers, already folding the blanket he's been sitting on all day.

"There's no cover or anything, and I get a break on drinks if you wanna come along."

Kris is stunned, but he recovers quick enough to say, "And you just _assume_ because I've spent the last 18 hours on your couch that I don't have a life..."

Adam looks up, catches his smile and grins back at him. "What can I say; I'm a mind reader."

They take the bus because Adam says it's cheaper than parking, which is Kris's first clue that they're not going to the club. Actually it's his second. Adam's conservative, slick appearance should have been his first, but he was too bowled over to process it completely. The way the suit fits him—makes him look like a long tall drink of something stiff—doesn't go unnoticed on the bus. People are looking at them, and Kris knows just how well they don't match, Adam sharp and polished, Kris still wearing the rumpled, slightly-smelly, too-tight t-shirt and jeans he wore to the club last night, and then slept in, and then laid around in all day. There are probably circles under his eyes, and he hadn't wanted to impose by borrowing a comb for the spiky brown hair sticking any direction but up.

Adam ignores the strangers' looks on the ride to the French Quarter, takes Kris by the elbow and leads him off the bus at Harrah's Casino and Kris's eyes go wide. "Don't tell me you perform at Harrah's." He shakes his head, trying to picture Adam in front of a bunch of gray-haired old ladies yanking on slot machines.

"What kind of lounge singer do you take me for?" Adam smiles and tugs him toward the towering Orleans Wyndham across the street.

_Adam's _kind of lounge is a long, low corner room on the second floor of the lobby, windows on both sides overlooking the glittering lights of the city in the darkness below. Adam pushes Kris toward a group of arm chairs near the side of the room before shaking hands with the bartender, one of the waitresses, the manager, and disappearing to go warm up.

The waitress comes by a minute later, giving Kris a disapproving once-over in the dim, intimate lighting. She sniffs and tosses her hair and says, "First drink is on the house, so make it a good one."

"Uh." Kris fakes a glance at the drink menu in front of him and looks up, drawing a blank. "What do you have on tap?"

"Right, double Johnny Black. You want it on the rocks or straight?"

"The.... Straight?" he guesses, since she's already made up her mind for him.

"Good choice." She sashays back toward the bar and Kris watches her go, really not sure what's going on. But he thinks she maybe likes him. Or Adam.

Speaking of...Adam walks out with a pianist about twenty minutes later while Kris is slowly sipping his whiskey. He takes his place in front of the microphone stand on the low stage in the corner and starts in after the opening bars, singing something quiet and sad that Kris has never heard. And he's never heard _Adam_ before either, because that voice is like the glass framing him, reflecting him back in gold and blues, unbreakable and clear and so much higher and more delicate than Kris would have imagined. Adam cups the microphone like a lover's face and sings a love song with an earnestness that makes Kris's eyes sting, and when it ends Kris can't applaud, just sits there stunned while a dozen or so well-dressed hotel guests murmur and clap politely.

Adam's joy is obvious; the energy he's putting out seems to fill up the room when he sings, and his smile is genuine, even on the stage. His artistry is real, and Kris can't get over the talent he couldn't see in the club. Adam looks the part, too, suave and beautiful instead of garish and campy. He looks...unreachable. Kris shifts in his comfortable chair and knows he's the one who doesn't belong.

After a 45-minute set Adam thanks the audience, shakes hands with his pianist, takes a clear drink from the waitress on his way off the stage, and heads straight for the empty chair next to Kris.

Kris watches him come, uneasy. He doesn't know how to relate to this Adam—this isn't the aloof hookup who took him home two nights ago, or the vamp who let him crash on his couch, or even the old friend who watched 80's movies and shared his food all day. The singer doesn't seem to notice his discomfort, just flops down, nudges Kris's leg with his foot, and asks, "What do you think?"

"Incredible," Kris says honestly. "I've never...I've never heard you sing before and I hadn't expected...god, you can really sing."

Adam cocks his head at him. "You've heard me, like, a dozen times at Simon's."

"Not really," Kris explains. "I...think their sound tech might kind of hate you." Adam blinks at him. Kris says, squirming and sympathetic, "I don't think your microphone was even _on_ this past week."

Instead of throwing the perfectly justified diva bitch fit Kris expects, Adam sighs long and loud and takes another sip of his drink. "Fucking asshole," he mutters.

"You don't sound too surprised," Kris points out carefully.

"Those that can, perform. And those that can't, tech. _Badly_. Guys like that come with the territory."

"He set the levels for the other two just fine..."

"Yeah, well," Adam pulls a vicious queen face out of nowhere and snaps, "he isn't _my_ type."

Kris wants to kick himself for bringing it up because now Adam's shut down and angry, jaw clenched and glaring out the far windows. "If he's doing it on purpose, can't you take it up with the manager?"

Adam laughs—a cold, biting sound—and says with fake niceness, "Don't worry about it."

Kris doesn't know what to do with the silence that follows. Adam looks to be enjoying the quiet, but Kris has all this pressure in his chest that got stirred up by Adam's performance. Before his brain can slap a filter on it, it comes out as a tangle of syllables that sound like, "So, what _is_ your type," hopeful and obvious.

Adam smiles a little and looks down into his drink. "Brown eyes. Tan skin. Sweet. And stable."

The burgeoning shy smile freezes on Kris's face and his stomach drops at the well-aimed barb. He looks down at his hands and doesn't say anything for the few minutes until Adam takes the stage again.

Kris doesn't mean to stay for Adam's whole gig; he knows he should leave after that rejection, but he keeps telling himself he'll leave after the next song. In between the second and third sets, Adam gets pulled into a conversation by a couple at the bar, talking about something energetic involving a lot of laughter. And then he's back on the stage again and Kris stupidly holds out for the next song, the next. And then it's almost midnight and Adam is done and Kris knows he has to find another place to stay, even as Adam is shaking hands with tipsy patrons, making his way to Kris's seat.

He's stayed too long again.

Kris pulls on his jacket and says, before Adam can bring it up, "My car's back at your place. How do I..."

Adam looks at him, surprised maybe, but shrugs and says, "Yeah, no problem. Lemme get my coat."

They meet up at the main entrance and Adam gets them on the right bus. Kris takes a seat on the opposite side of the aisle, giving him space, but his eyes are inevitably drawn to Adam's sinfully dark eyelashes, pink lips, broad shoulders. Adam is shooting little looks back at him before pulling his eyes quickly away each time he catches Kris staring.

They get off the bus and walk the two blocks to Adam's upscale apartment building in silence, and then in the parking lot Adam asks, "So where are you headed now?"

"I don't know," Kris admits. "Back downtown, I guess."

"Why?" Adam asks, more direct than he's been all day.

"I gotta...find somewhere to spend the night." Kris winces at how pathetic and lost he sounds.

"You seriously-" Adam cuts himself off. "Um. There's a shelter at St. Mary's, over in the fourth ward. They might still be open...." He looks a little dubious at that, even without checking his watch.

Kris blanches, finally realizing what he's acting like. What Adam thinks he is. What he's slowly turning into. "Fuck that," he says harshly; he is _not_ some homeless guy who needs to sleep in the gutter. "I'll find a fucking motel, make some extra money on the street tomorrow-"

Adam inhales sharply and takes a step back, his eyes going from compassionate to cold in the ghostly street lights. "That's what you'll do, huh?"

Kris blinks at his retreat, replays the conversation. And in the toss-up between laughing and screaming, laughing thankfully wins. "Oh my god. Oh my god _no_, I don't. Oh my _god_, I meant _busking_. You know I do music and..." Adam's shoulders are relaxing, he's shaking his head incredulously, and Kris has had the week from hell—the _month_ from hell—and this latest misunderstanding just drives it all home, the ludicrousness of his situation, how far his life has slipped from normal, respectable, and he sits down on the curb, puts his head in his arms and laughs until it's turning into something worse, until he's almost sobbing with frustration.

Adam sits next to him, long legs folded awkwardly over the short curb, and puts an arm around his shoulders, stroking his back a little.

Kris tries to pull himself together, tries to explain. "I _have_ a home. I have a job, and a car, and...and _other clothes_." It had been so easy to cling to the comfortable welcome he'd found at Adam's apartment rather than going back to Satan's garden-style walk-up. "I just..."

"You can't go back at night," Adam supplies quietly, remembering what Kris had said 24 hours earlier.

"Yes!" It's wrenched from his throat and leaves him shaking and worn out.

"Okay," Adam says eventually, still rubbing his shoulders. "Okay. D'you wanna crash on my couch again? Just for one more night. And you can leave the light on, too, I don't mind."

Kris nods, wipes at his face with his sleeves and straightens up a little. "Yeah, thank you. Thank you."

"Okay," Adam says again, and tugs Kris to his feet, into the apartment building.

****  
  


Despite his emotional overload outside, Kris isn't tired yet.

Neither is Adam. He gives Kris a pair of sweatpants, changes into his own pajamas, and comes back out of the bedroom to join him on the couch. Adam keeps glancing at him as they flip through all the channels twice, settling on some reality crap on MTV that neither of them is actually watching. Kris's focus has narrowed down to just Adam's breathing, Adam's knee barely touching his thigh.

Kris turns his head and Adam doesn't look away this time. Kris stares back for a long moment—from the neck up Adam's still perfectly put together from the lounge and Kris wants to touch him so bad he can barely sit still—until Adam leans in quickly and kisses him. Kris feels lips hot and soft against his and then Adam turns his head away and says to the TV, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have...you don't have to..."

Kris grabs Adam's face and pulls him back in, runs a hand into his gelled hair so he can kiss him back longer, harder, with more intent and more tongue. Adam groans and leans back on the couch, puts a big hand on Kris's hip and drags his body against him.

The surprising, overwhelming lust of Sunday night flares again, picking up right where they left off, and Kris wants Adam bad enough to give it another try. Adam feels the same, judging by the hardening bulge in his cotton pants. Kris pulls himself up Adam's chest and kisses at his eyelids, his nose, his lips again before reminding him, "You said you were gonna fuck me." Adam moans and Kris stands up, says, "Get your stuff," peeling off his own t-shirt.

Adam's eyes open and he grins up at him like he's enjoying a show, so Kris puts his hands on his hips, impatient. "_Now_."

Adam is gone in a flash and Kris shucks off his borrowed sweats. Adam races back from the bathroom with a box of condoms and lube in his hands and Kris grabs him, yanks the shirt up and the pants down, stripping him naked in the middle of the living room. Adam leans into him, looking for another kiss, but Kris is in no mood to go slow, not with the tense memory of last time still attached to it. He grabs Adam's hips and pushes him down to sit on the couch, climbing on to straddle him, knees on the outsides of Adam's thighs.

Adam is staring at him like he's a genius and Kris smirks, pries the lube packet out of Adam's fist, tears it open and smears it over his own fingers. He hooks an arm around Adam's neck for support and reaches back between his spread legs, arching his back to get the right angle and shoves a slick finger in his ass. He hisses and Adam says, "Holy shit, Kris, yeah, baby, I got ya," big hands sliding up to his shoulder blades, taking some of Kris's weight as Adam leans closer and starts biting and sucking on Kris's throat.

He leans back into Adam's grip and forward against his mouth and worms a second finger in, his strumming wrist aching from the angle as he twists and loosens. He's not gonna get deep enough with three, not around the back like this, so it'll have to be enough. "Adam, condom," he pants.

Adam stops ravaging his throat and lets go with one hand, biting open the wrapper carefully and dumping the condom on the couch next to them. Kris lends Adam a hand and together they manage to slide it over Adam's cock, Kris dripping a little extra slick over it and smearing it around. Then he straightens up, braces his greasy hands on Adam's shoulders, and lowers himself down, Adam guiding his cock and Kris's hip so they meet at just the right spot.

It's tight and hard and Kris pushes down anyway, grunts until the head pops in and Adam makes a choked sound and Kris can slide all the way home, Adam throbbing hot and deep inside him. Adam throws his head back, eyes shut, mascara-coated lashes dark on his cheeks, and Kris suddenly sees Katy in the feminine detail, tenses up. But the hands on his ribs urge him up, drag him off so he can sink down again, just a little too much friction making his head loll and his teeth sink into his lower lip, his mind wiped clean of the unwelcome memory.

Adam bucks as Kris slides down and that's exactly the right angle. Kris clenches harder with his hands and his ass, simultaneous reward and punishment, and lifts up again easier and faster. Adam starts attacking his throat and shoulders again, kissing and whispering dirty endearments, dark promises into his skin, rocking up to meet Kris each time, and Kris's thighs are burning from the endless rise and fall.

Too soon, Adam's stroking his cock and rubbing his balls, giving him just that little bit more than he can handle, and Kris falls apart, coming all over Adam's stomach and throwing himself against his chest. Adam struggles under him, frees his arms and starts lifting Kris's hips, grinding up into his ass for his own release. His fingers are digging in like iron and Kris squirms, tries to give a few small bounces to help him out, and that does the trick. After a minute Adam groans, his whole body shaking.

Kris relaxes and nuzzles up under his chin, closing his eyes and smelling Adam's sweat and makeup and hair gel.

****  
  


Kris wakes up just before noon on Wednesday, naked under the borrowed blanket, his ass sore and his heart lighter than it's been in a week. His back hates him for spending another night on that couch though. The sound of running water shutting off gets his attention and he lies awake humming a country song until Adam appears in the bathroom doorway, wearing a red towel around his hips and a black towel on his head. "You alright?"

"Nothing a cup of coffee wouldn't fix," Kris smiles hopefully.

Adam looks him over and then leans a hip against the doorframe, showing off the hard, lean muscles of his chest and arms. "I'll make you a deal. I'll give you coffee _only if_ you take a shower."

"What kind of deal is that?" Kris laughs.

"A win-win for both of us. I can practically smell you from here."

Kris grumbles like he's insulted, but he's a lot closer to himself than Adam is, and happens to agree on the need for immediate drastic measures.

Over their post-shower coffee and toast, Adam asks Kris for a favor; he could use some help running a couple errands that the bus can't get him to... Kris immediately volunteers to drive Adam wherever he needs to go; it's the least he can do after Adam's let him stay so long. Adam beams and runs to his bedroom to get changed, excited as a kid who's been told to pack for Disney World.

Their first destination is Adam's favorite costume shop in a little strip mall in Slidell. As soon as they open the door, Kris starts laughing at the trio of Cher mannequins, each in a signature red carpet look, including the two foot showgirl headdress.

"I know, right?" Adam gushes. "They're to die for."

Kris almost chokes. He hadn't considered _guys_ wanting to wearing them. Or _Adam_ wanting to wear them.

Thankfully, Adam darts ahead to a display of boots, running his fingers over black leather mid-calf platforms with about 20 straps each.

Kris follows, regaining his equilibrium as Adam ogles the more masculine leather footwear. He sticks an elbow in Adam's ribs and says, with an ease he doesn't quite feel, "If you said no to button-flys, I'm saying no to those. They look impossible to get off."

"Naw, baby, this is _drama_. Totally worth it." He shoves half of the pair into Kris's hands and says, "See if you can find these in a 10.5," and then he wanders toward a display case of silver jewelry.

Kris shakes his head and crouches down to sort through the shelves of green and black boxes. By the time he turns back around, Adam is lost from sight. "Adam? I found 'em!"

"Just a minute," Adam yells from the other end of the surprisingly deep shop.

Kris brings the box with him, ducking past racks of dresses, pants, shirts, skirts. He's never been in a costume shop outside of Halloween. But he has to remind himself that, apparently, every night is Halloween for Adam and the other performers at Simon's. That thought makes him feel a little better, although the wig section is especially disturbing; picturing Adam in a Marie Antoinette hairpiece is a pretty big turnoff.

There are sequins and feathers and rhinestones everywhere he looks, and the whole place is pretty dazzling, but not as dazzling as Adam, emerging from a changing room wearing a white leather and rhinestone Elvis jumpsuit and posing with his hips forward, legs out, sneer in place, ready to rock.

"Oh hell no," Kris cackles, caught off guard by the almost-straight, totally sexy vision in front of him.

"What! This is hot!" Adam protests.

"That's one of my rock idols, dude! You're not supposed to make him hot! He's supposed to be old and bloated and majestic!"

"You don't think young Elvis was hot?" Adam sticks out his tongue and cranes his neck down like he'll lick his own nipple through the gaping jumpsuit.

"Oh my god," Kris protests again. "Take the boots! Take them! And get out of that!" He tosses the box to Adam and giggles his way to the comparable safety of the makeup displays, childhood memories of his mother's Elvis records now tarnished by the thought of sexing up a young hot _gay_ Elvis.

Adam clomps out of the dressing room a few minutes later dressed in his own tight jeans and _Boondock Saints_ t-shirt. And the boots. It's only four extra inches; but they make him look eight feet tall stomping toward Kris with a fierce, commanding expression on his face, his hips swaying as he struts, shoulders back and staring him down. He's pure power and sex, and Kris is captivated, thinks about last night and doing it again as soon as possible. The car is out in the parking lot...

And then Adam gets distracted by a neon orange string-boa on a display rack and whips it off as he passes, wrapping it around his fists. It ruins the image and Kris snickers.

"C'mere, sweetie," Adam coos, orange fluff extended, and Kris is torn between backing away and playing along, but Adam's grin is like a tractor beam and he ends up wrapped in the boa and Adam's arms as the taller man leans over him to get at the makeup counter. "I wanna show you my favorite party trick. Can I show my party trick? Please," Adam coaxes, squeezing his shoulders and nuzzling near his ear.

"Why not," Kris shrugs. He has a passing concern that he might be setting himself up for a two minute blowjob in public, but he dismisses it as highly unlikely.

Adam picks out a red gel lipgloss and tows Kris by the boa lasso to a full-length mirror. "Okay, you have to promise to hold absolutely still, no matter what. Do you promise?"

"Fine."

Adam unscrews the gloss and coats his own lips once, dips again and coats a second time, dips again for a third coat of shiny berry-red lipgloss, almost hypnotic in his methodical precision, the dark stain jarring against his strong jaw and faint stubble. He screws the tube closed and tosses it over his shoulder, rubs his thumb hard and unexpected over Kris's lips. It would be so easy to open his mouth and suck him in-

Adam steps close, tips Kris's chin up and all the way back so he can bend down and kiss him. Kris remembers his promise and holds as still as he can, though it's so hard not to respond as Adam rolls a kiss across his lips excruciatingly slow and careful, his breath a maddening tickle as he presses to the left, to the right, to the left and right again.

Then he lifts up and examines his work, eyes crinkled at the black-rimmed edges, biting his own lip with pride. Satisfied, he points Kris toward the mirror and yeah, okay, Kris is honestly impressed at the near-perfect transfer. "Neat trick," he admits, heart still fluttering a little.

"I don't even need to tell you how awesome college was," Adam brags. "Ooo, sweetie, what d'you think?"

Kris drags his gaze away from the foreign and discomforting sight of lipstick on his own face to the boots on Adam's feet. "I can't see the straps if you're wearing them under jeans."

"I'd wear skinny jeans. The boots go on top." Adam bends all the way down, his t-shirt riding up over his lower back—tantalizingly close—to haul up the cuff of his blue jeans. He twists his ankle around and bends his neck, considering all the angles.

"Your call," Kris hears himself say dimly. He wants to wipe the lipstick off and trash the boa. He wants to push Adam into the changing room and take care of the growing problem in his pants. He never wants to stop seeing that pleased look on Adam's face directed at him.

Their second destination is Adam's favorite gourmet food shop, this one halfway to Baton Rouge.

"That is a gross exaggeration," Adam announces as Kris pulls into the parking lot. "We're still within sight of urban sprawl."

"I'm the one watching the odometer, babe. And I'm starting to think you owe me for gas."

"Sugar, if you want a little sugar, all you gotta do is ask," Adam purrs, running a finger up the inseam of Kris's jeans. Thank god the car was already in park.

They stock up on Napa Valley wine and Modesto cheese and San Diego salsa and a case of tofu that Kris can find no explanation for, Adam almost giddy as he fills two grocery bags with Californian exports. And _oh_. That's more than he's learned about Adam's past in the whole last two days.

It finally dawns on Kris that Adam's been getting Kris talking while saying almost nothing about himself. It's a weird dynamic—unpleasant, too. Like maybe they aren't as close as he's let himself pretend. Maybe this is just how Adam acts with everyone; friends, lovers, strangers all alike. Kris presses his lips together, raw and sensitive from the vigorous scrubbing he'd given them earlier.

He's more somber on the way back to the city. This time he knows what the right thing to do is; get some space, get his head cleared out. He's been running from his demon for so long he's starting to lose touch with reality. He needs to think up an actual plan, not this escape fantasy he's been indulging in. "Hey," he says as they're coming up on his exit. "Do you mind if we make a side trip before I drop you off?"

"Drop me... Sure, no problem," Adam says cheerfully, lifting his face out of the bag of avocados he's been sniffing in ecstasy.

"It'll just take a few minutes. I...I wanna pick up a few things."

His hands are tightening on the wheel as he pictures the drive through the development, the view from the bottom of the outside staircase, his hand on the doorknob.

He doesn't realize he's gone quiet and white-knuckled until Adam guesses, too observant by half, "From your place."

"Yeah."

He takes the second Covington exit and tries to concentrate on the white and yellow lines on the road.


	2. Chapter 2

Kris leaves the motor running because he doesn't plan on taking long; _not_ because he plans on running out of the building with the devil on his heels. When he opens the front door, he's greeted by nothing. The faucet is dripping in the kitchen sink, same as it always does, and the rotating fan is blowing, but everything else is quiet. There's no presence. Kris breathes easier and slips inside, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. Just in case.

He hurries to the bedroom and digs out his old backpack, throws in a couple pairs of jeans and t-shirts, pajamas, even a plaid button-down in case he gets a chance to work in the next few days. His toothbrush, deodorant, shaving kit—he's got almost three days of stubble on him and it's itchy as hell. He's got everything he needs for a short motel stay and he's heading for the door with his guitar in hand when he turns back and notices the perfect row of cracked picture frames propped against the bedroom wall, glass chips shimmering on the carpet.

Seconds later, Kris is out in the parking lot and he doesn't even remember if he closed the door behind him or not, is pretty sure he doesn't care. He rips open the back door of the Toyota and shoves his guitar case and backpack inside, slams the door and throws himself into the front seat, fighting to suppress the panic attack he doesn't wanna have in front of Adam. He forces himself to take long, slow breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth until he thinks he's calm enough to turn and acknowledge the other man in the car.

Who is looking politely away. Great. Kris thumps his skull against the headrest in frustration before remembering what he'd meant to do before he saw the latest damage. He twists around and thrashes his hips a little to squeeze between the two seats, reaching into the back to spring a clean Henley from his backpack. He peels off the nasty t-shirt and tosses it into the backseat, pulls on the new white shirt.

With both hands on the wheel once more, Kris turns the keys and starts them back to the highway. Adam is the first one to speak. "Almost dinnertime. You wanna stop somewhere? It's my night off."

It's a relief to not be alone yet. Kris takes them to an outdoor retail/restaurant development he likes, down by the lake. He watches nervously for people's reactions to his companion, because Adam had added two shades of purple eye shadow and black mascara to his already lined eyes before they left the costume shop. And now, instead of looking like he's in a punk band, or a little emo or something, his eyes look feminine, bright and obvious. No one seems to spare Adam a second glance, though. Kris sorts through how he feels about that and ends up with relief that he's not in Arkansas anymore.

They sit at one of the retro diner's outdoor tables and eat hamburgers and greasy fries while Kris tries to fix the balance in their relationship. He tries to get Adam to talk about himself, starting with how he got the gigs at the Wyndham and Simon's.

Adam shrugs and explains his Thursday through Monday schedule at Simon's, Tuesdays-only at the lounge, and how he's angling to pick up extra nights at the high-paying Wyndham when any of their other performers miss a night. He's talking around the details Kris wants, dishing about the people he works with, the commitments he has, but not how they've shaped his life, or what his life was like before he met them.

And when Kris can't take the runaround any longer, he stops pressing, lets Adam coax out of him all the details of his own musical career in New Orleans, from the song writing to the session gigs to the busking for extra income.

Adam looks around when Kris explains he's had good success here—it's a prime neighborhood for busking; lots of people, lots of outdoor dining this time of night. Adam finishes his soda and suggests that Kris give it a go right now. "I gave you a command performance last night. It's time to show me what you've got."

The sun is behind Adam, making it hard for Kris to read his eyes. Given how quiet Adam's been for the past hour, Kris isn't sure if Adam's just encouraging his plan to make money for a motel to be rid of him faster, or if he actually wants to hear something.

But he decides not to care and goes and gets his guitar out of the car, setting up in his favorite spot near the mouth of the restaurant courtyard. Adam pays the tab—his contribution to the day's gas expense—and eventually comes over to sit on the opposite benches to watch.

Kris is uncharacteristically nervous. He's sung in front of dozens of people at a time, hundreds back at school. Singing to an oblivious stream of passersby should be no big deal. But he remembers the look on Adam's face after the lipstick kiss, and he's so afraid he's gonna disappoint. He starts with a Tom Petty song cause he could use a little bravado and watches Adam watching him as he starts to sing. Adam's face isn't giving him any feedback, and he knows he doesn't have a voice like Adam's, or that stage presence, but he tries harder, he tries his best, putting his whole heart into it.

The music gradually lightens his mood, erases the tension from visiting the condo. Adam is there for part of it and then disappears, reappearing during the next song with a Starbucks cup. He continues watching and listening. Night falls and Kris doesn't even notice. He sings for three hours straight without a break, without sitting down. He stops worrying about being Adam's ride and keeping Adam there so late, even forgets about Adam entirely toward the end, until Adam is putting a hand over the frets before he can start another song, bringing Kris back down to earth, to the pain in his feet, the aching dryness in his throat.

"That's enough tonight, sweetheart," Adam says gently.

He helps Kris unshoulder the guitar and collect the money from his case. Almost $145, one of his best hauls yet. Kris is physically exhausted but emotionally recharged and ready to get himself a motel room for the night. But when they get back to the car, Kris slides the guitar into the backseat and then Adam is pressing him up against the driver's door, hand sliding under Kris's clean shirt, mouth on Kris's ear, hips and thighs pressing him against the warm steel frame.

"Fuck the motel, you're coming home with me," he says roughly, lips finding Kris's.

**   
  
**

Adam isn't there when he wakes up. Not that Kris reached for him before he'd even opened his eyes, his body somehow remembering the long-broken habit of falling asleep with someone next to him. No, Kris didn't consciously remember Adam until he'd recognized the black sheets and long windows with vertical blinds, sunlight giving the big bedroom a warm glow. He leaves his hand on Adam's cold pillow for a few seconds, lies to himself that he'd just been reaching to smooth the fabric.

He pulls his pajamas back on and sticks his head out of the bedroom looking for Adam, but he isn't in the kitchen or the living room. Kris knocks on the bathroom door, expecting to hear Adam's voice, but he doesn't answer.  When he tries the knob, the unlocked door swings open on dark tiles. Kris frowns and looks over his shoulder, surprised that Adam would leave him alone in his apartment. He'd mentioned using the fitness center sometimes....

Kris flips on the light and takes a shower, using only the minimum of hot water in case Adam wants a shower when he gets back from wherever. Clean pants should never be a luxury, but Kris takes a moment to appreciate them anyway as he tugs them on. And then he takes another moment to wonder where Adam's gone again. And whether he would mind if Kris helped himself to his bread.

Kris pushes yesterday's groceries around to clear a small corner of the kitchen table and eats two slices of toast and blackberry jam while he checks his voice mails. It's only 7 a.m., maybe the studio will have something for him today....

There's been no word from the studio, but there's an upset message that his mom left last night. Kris rolls his eyes and calls her back, apologizes for missing their last two weekly calls. No, he isn't dead in a ditch somewhere, he's just been...busy. He's been getting out a lot more. Yes, out with people. His mom can't bring herself to ask if he means men or women, and Kris doesn't want to push her boundaries, not after his divorce and coming out almost got her kicked out of their church. And he can't bring himself to tell her what's been happening at the condo. He finally convinces her that he's good, he's happy...and maybe he actually is, because it's so easy not to think about the hard stuff at Adam's place.

He cleans up after breakfast and relocates to the couch, skimming through Adam's copy of _Rolling Stone_ for a few minutes until the door opens. Kris looks up with a smile on his face and a "Hi!" for Adam.

But Adam pushes the door open and pauses a moment like he hadn't expected to see him there, shoves the door shut behind him, clomps over in big shitkicker boots to look down at him, just the other side of the coffee table. He looks pissed off. Kris jerks his bare feet off the table and closes the magazine in case he's overstepped.

Adam says, "You're up early. Good," and drops something on the table with a loud thunk. Two somethings. Kris's wallet and car keys.

Kris stares at them and then back up at Adam, and then back at the keys and wallet on the table. Had he left them in the way? Had Adam had to move his car? "Is there a problem?"

"Yeah, a big one," Adam agrees, hands on his hips. "And it's time you tell me what it is."

Kris hates this kind of game. This is the way Katy would start their fights. "Why don't you tell me what you're talking about, cause I have no clue where you're coming from."

"Your place," Adam says bluntly. "I just came from your place."

"What?" That's the instinctive thing to blurt, while his brain takes an extra two seconds to catch up. Because he must have heard wrong, Adam hadn't said- "You went to my place?"

"Yeah. I thought it was time to have a look around. Find out what was _so scary_ about your home." Adam uses air quotes and all the sarcasm in his well-stocked, drag queen arsenal.

Kris stares up at him in growing horror, his mind simply refusing to accept what he's hearing.

"And you know what? I still have no fucking clue. I went all over in there. I looked in your closets, your bathroom, your kitchen...it's a _nice place_, Kris!"

"No," he says weakly, shaking his head.

"Yeah, and you know what? You _own_ it. Yeah! You didn't tell me that! Here," he pulls a folded envelope out of his back pocket and throws it on top of the keys. This month's mortgage bill. "So why don't you tell me what the _fuck_ you're doing on my couch, when you _own_ a _nice fucking place_! Huh?"

And Kris shouldn't say, "You invited me," but that's exactly what comes out of his mouth, because his brain has checked out and curled up into a little ball of denial now that this conversation is finally happening.

Adam actually freezes for a few seconds, staring at him like he's grown another head, his eyes bugging out a little. "You did _not_," he sputters. "I have not been letting you crash at my place just so you can.... God, I don't even _know_ you!"

"I wasn't," Kris protests, not sure what he's denying.

"I thought, you know, maybe it's dangerous at your place. Bad neighborhood or something. Or maybe you had a scary roommate. Or were hiding from somebody, an ex-boyfriend, loan shark, whatever. But there's nobody there, Kris. The place is empty, it's all yours. So why the _fuck_ aren't you there right now?"

Kris looks anywhere but at Adam and notices the sunlight on the windowsill. "You went in the morning-"

"No," Adam cuts him off, shifting his weight back and forth like he's too angry to stand still. "You said you couldn't go back there at night. So I went _at night_. And aside from a creepy neighbor with really bad taste in lipstick, there was _nothing wrong_."

"No, you must've. It must not've..." Kris's world is turning upside down. Adam was in there at night and nothing happened? But there have been nights when Kris was there and nothing happened. "It wasn't active, you didn't _see_ it."

Adam flails his arms and grabs his hair, and Kris can practically see the migraine he's causing him. But Adam overcomes, drops his hands and calms himself down. He crouches down on the carpet, then kneels, sits on his boot heels looking up at Kris earnestly. "Okay, let's. I'm sorry. Let's start over. Okay? I took your car and went to your place last night because I wanted to know what was scaring you so badly. I don't _want_ you to be scared. That's all. So. How about you just...tell me why you think you can't be there at night."

And oh my god, Kris suddenly wants to cry. Nobody'd asked him that before now, not even Adam, so he hadn't had to say it, but. Adam _asked_. "I." He takes a deep breath, locks his core to stop the trembling. "It's...haunted."

Adam looks at him for a long time, probably expecting him to be joking. "Haunted," he eventually repeats.

Kris nods, shakes his head, miserable. "Yes. I don't know. I don't know _what_ it is, but it's _in there_ and it wants to kill me. It moves things at night and...and when it starts I can't move, and I can't fight it, and I..." He forces another breath into his lungs. "I can't _be there_."

Adam is just watching him now, no sympathy and no anger. "You think your condo is haunted," he says slowly. "And that's why you've been sleeping in your car, crashing on my couch..."

"It's," Kris protests, "it's _real_. And _does things_. It breaks dishes. It broke all my picture frames while I was away."

"Let me tell you what I saw," Adam says, totally cool. "I saw a mess. Food everywhere. Clothes on the floor. Broken furniture. Smashed photos. D'you know what that looked like to me?" He looks hard at Kris, demanding his full attention. "That looked like anger. You're lashing out at someone and you're taking it out on everything around you."

"No," Kris shakes his head vigorously because he _needs_ Adam to believe him. Adam's the first person he's told, and he doesn't want to be alone with this secret any longer.

"Who's making you this mad? Is it your wife? Has she been calling you? Or did somebody hurt you-"

"No, _stop_! It isn't _me_."

"Kris, you need to talk about this. I can't deal with...I can't _help_ you if you're gonna keep hiding from it. No matter what you _believe_, there's something else going on here."

"_Fuck you_, I'm telling you the truth! I'm not having some kind of delusion; there's something in there and it does things at night and it's scaring me to _death_!"

Adam rocks back on his heels, his face a blank even beyond the lack of makeup. And Kris finally notices what Adam looks like. There's no glamour, no effort, his appearance as plain as any straight man on the street. He looks exhausted, nothing more.

Adam doesn't believe him.

"You shouldn't have gone there," is all Kris can say, pathetic, giving up already. Adam's never going to believe him. All he can do is try to protect him. "It's _dangerous_, even if you think I'm crazy or paranoid or delusional. You can never go back there at night."

"Trust me, I don't plan to," Adam says, flat.

Adam's disappointment cuts through him sharp as claws. Kris stands up, unable to bear that look in Adam's eyes. "I'm. I'll go."

I'm sorry. Thank you.

He can't bring himself to say _either_.

Adam stands and moves to the windows, giving Kris space to move around the apartment, to collect what he needs. Kris tries not to look at Adam, arms crossed in the sunlight, freckles on his nose and cheeks, completely closed off.

It's only when he's at the door, backpack on his hunched shoulder, that Adam says, "If you need to talk..." He doesn't finish the offer.

Kris bites back the pleading, the desperate need to be believed. He opens the door and walks out.

**   
  
**

Kris drives west until he's near the airport's crop of motels. He picks a Red Roof Inn with a flashing $55 sign and pays for two nights up front. He's got a place to stay. He's got time to think. He's got the space he thought he needed to clear his head, come up with a plan. That's what he'd wanted, so he should be happy. He orders himself to cheer up and think positively, but ends up lying by the pool in his pajamas pants, listening to his iPod and sulking all day. He stays in that night, falling asleep exhausted on the scratchy sheets.

The studio wakes him up at 6:30 a.m. with a call for a day-long session. It's his first session gig in a week, and Kris is beyond grateful. He puts on his last clean set of clothes and hustles downtown before rush hour to study up.

Today's amateur musician is a Moroccan girl doing some kind of African-Pop fusion crap that doesn't hold together. The real problem is her lack of song structure. Kris tries to make a few suggestions after the first two hours, but the little 19-year old rich girl cuts him with the nastiest glare and tells the studio producer that she didn't book this time to have to talk to no-talent wash-ups. Kris takes the producer's head jerk to heart and shuts up for the rest of the day, does his best to make her awkward chording sound good with her uninspired vocals and, unbelievably, the silly bongo samples she brought in.

Kris catches himself smiling at the thought of explaining this nightmare "musician" to Adam, and his stomach and smile sour.

Shit. Even though he knows he can't go back, he can't stop thinking about Adam. He knows this feeling. And he hadn't realized how much he'd missed it these last three years.

Kris gets off work, cashes his studio check, and stays downtown to get a po'boy for dinner. He eats on a bench overlooking the Mississippi, delaying the inevitable for a few hours. He even pulls his guitar out and plays for a little bit, quiet, not for anyone else. The chord pattern for a new song runs through his head but he resists the urge to start writing lyrics just yet—he'll need something to occupy his mind later when this all falls apart.

Just before 9 p.m. he drives over to Simon's in time for the early bird drink specials and buys three bottles that he takes over to the side counter and starts nursing. The place is already pretty crowded and dark, and he doesn't see Adam wandering around before the show. But at 10 p.m. the DJ calls everyone's attention to the stage, the lights go crazy, and Adam struts out in gold glitter spandex pants, a white tunic belted closed at the waist—the one they'd bought together two days ago—white platform boots, glitter in his hair, and eyes sparkling a rainbow of colors.

Kris shifts his remaining two bottles closer to the front of the club so he can watch Adam swivel his hips and shimmy his shoulders as he sings with _no voice_ again... And if Kris is here to be masochistic, he wants to feel the _full_ hurt, so he drains his second beer in one go and stalks back to the sound board where some tall guy with bleach blond gelled hair and tight leather pants is nodding his head to the Kylie Minogue remix he's blasting, hands roving over the soundboard and completely ignoring Adam's mute strutting.

Kris slams his empty bottle down next to the board, spilling the guy's girlie-drink over the wooden table. The sound guy looks up and flails before attempting to sweep the pink frozen cocktail off the table with his bare hands. He leans over Kris and yells at him to keep his drunk ass away from the sound board. Kris grins meanly up at him and deliberately tips the beer bottle over. Nothing comes out, but the way the guy jumps and tries to stop him makes him laugh a little.

The sound tech puts a solid bitch face on and leans over Kris again, shoves at one of his shoulders.

And that's what Kris was waiting for. Kris grabs that arm and yanks the guy down to his level so he can growl "If you don't make him fucking _sing_, I'm telling the cops you're selling weed to minors back here." And then he lets go, turns his back, and returns to his spot on the side rail to watch the show.

Adam's vocal levels suddenly pop, and heads that were oblivious to the physical presence on the stage turn at the sound of a high, effortless voice wailing about becoming a stronger woman without you. Kris smiles around the growing lump in his throat and sips off his third bottle, watching Adam shine like he was supposed to. Jesus Christ he's gonna miss him. Touching him. That kiss. Fuck.

Kris ditches his unfinished beer and switches to Jack.

It's a different experience, being in this club without the pressure of needing to hookup, needing to find a place to spend the night. That motel key in his pocket feels like a winning lottery ticket—at least a temporary one. Kris loses interest when the other singers perform—to his mind, they've got nothing on Adam when his levels are done right. He's thinking about maybe trying to get backstage to say hi, hoping Adam won't have him thrown out, but he figures the odds on either count aren't too good.

So he stays where he is and drinks his drink and watches the people around him. But for all his watching, he didn't see the guy coming who slides a hand along the bar behind Kris's back and has an arm around his shoulders before Kris even knows he's there. "What's your pleasure," he rumbles in Kris's ear, beard scratching his skin.

Kris stiffens and glances up but the guy has a white smile and high cheekbones and that Nawlins drawl and he's tipping his bottle against Kris's shot glass and raising his eyebrows over warm, dark eyes. And it's easy to smile back, duck his head a little and say "Jack Daniels" and let the guy buy him another round.

Adam comes back onstage for his second set and Kris gets distracted, so the guy—Ben—maneuvers them to a table, putting Kris's back to the stage. Kris lets it happen, is actually grateful when Ben puts his hand on Kris's forearm and squeezes when Kris starts to look at the stage over his shoulder. Kris tries to tune out Adam's voice doing an over the top Freddie Mercury scream and listens to Ben compliment his eyes. Kris throws the compliment right back, admiring the uptilt at the corners, the sweep of long lashes without mascara or liner. He's traditionally handsome. Totally masculine. The kind of guy Kris was interested in before he met Adam.

Ben smiles wider and tilts his head, gaze never straying, and his hand stays warm on Kris's skin. It's flattering and uncomplicated and it makes Kris feel so _normal_. And when the last performer is singing his last few numbers of the night, Kris leans forward and asks if Ben wants to get out of there.

Ben practically leaps out of his chair, pulling out his wallet to pay his tab, and Kris stands up and grins, tugging on his jacket and adjusting himself in his jeans. The club is packed with tourists and locals crammed around them, and two girls are already sliding into their abandoned seats before Ben's managed to flag down the overworked waiter. Ben puts a hand on his arm again, leans in close and says, "I'm gonna pay at the bar, meet me at the door."

Kris watches Ben's ass in his baggy jeans until Ben disappears into the crowd, and then makes for the cooler air by the entrance. He doesn't expect the hand on his shoulder, turning him back. "Change your mind?" he's saying as he turns, an arm already reaching up to pull Ben in for a persuasive kiss, but rainbow eyes bring him up short. "Adam," he says, unprepared for the very meeting he'd been hoping for when he came to Simon's four hours ago.

Adam is still in his stage makeup, but there's a black-and-red striped beanie pulled over the glitter in his hair, and he's changed to a blue t-shirt and jeans. "That guy. Stay away from him," Adam shouts over the music.

The reflective rainbows and glitter pulse hypnotically in the flashing lights, but those aren't the words Kris wanted to hear. "It's none of your business," Kris snaps, knocking Adam's hand away and heading for the door, because Adam is everything complicated he wants but can't handle right now and Ben is easy and comfortable and that's good enough.

Adam pursues, stops him again just outside the door. "I know. I know it isn't my business, but you don't need to do this just for a place to-"

There are people all around them, a few couples hanging out on the porch steps, the bouncers, giggling tourists snapping photos of New Orleans's most famous gay bar, the bass is thudding through the walls behind them, and Kris does not need his personal psychotic break shouted around in the god damn street. "No, _no_, shut up! This isn't about _that_. I have a place, a motel. This is just for me, this is what _I_ want-"

"Then not him."

"Why not? You'd rather I went home with _you_?"

"Kris," Adam hisses, crowding him against the brick wall. "He'll hold you down!"

That hits like a cold splash of water to his face. It must show, because Adam's frown softens and he reaches out a big hand and Kris can't breathe, the fear is back and he buries his face in Adam's chest and gasps for air.

Adam is stroking his hair when someone says, "Adam...you know Kris."

"Yeah, he's with me," Adam tells him firmly.

Kris lifts his head, having to resist Adam's possessive grip until it eases, and sees Ben staring. Kris can't help but visualize what it would've looked like, staring up at Ben as he pinned him, so he shakes his head and looks away, hands fisted in Adam's t-shirt.

"You're okay, nobody's gonna hurt you," Adam says, pulling him back in, and Kris allows it, clings to Adam's well-intentioned comfort for a few needy minutes longer than he knows he should; they don't have this between them, Adam doesn't believe him, he's still on his own with his private nightmare...

Kris finally gets over the worst of it and pushes against Adam's stomach, clears a few inches between them. Eyes closed, he says, aiming for a casual conversation, "You and Ben, huh?"

"Yeah," Adam sounds a little guilty.

The brown eyes, tan skin. "Your type," Kris realizes.

"To a point. He wasn't sweet."

"I guess not." He lets out a shaky breath. "Thanks, then."

"It was-" Adam stops. "Kris."

Kris opens his eyes and looks up. Now it's Adam who has his eyes closed, arm braced over him. The rainbow appliqués are beautiful, but Kris can see where sweat cut through his makeup, loosened the adhesive at the edges so the sequined corners are peeling off.

"I'm sorry about yesterday. You have a problem and I just...couldn't understand." Adam scrunches one of his eyes closed tighter like the big rainbow patch itches and Kris itches to peel it off for him, to see the black eyebrow underneath. "You were telling me you need help and..."

He shoves Adam away and steps out onto the street, not liking where Adam's persisting concern is going. "I'm not a head case," he insists to the man he knows is following him. "At least, I'm pretty sure I'm not," he adds quietly, to himself. Saying that aloud doesn't hurt as much as he'd expected; god, he's come such a very long way from normal. "I don't need you or some psychiatrist telling me it's all in my head, because it's _not_."

"Okay," Adam agrees, falling into step with him.

Kris digs his hands into his jacket pockets and stares at the ground in front of him so he doesn't have to see Adam looking down at him with so much compassion. "I'm not gonna end up in a fucking loony bin for the criminally insane just cause I bought the wrong house."

"Totally not. No shrinks, that's cool." Adam kicks at a plastic Budweiser bottle. They watch it roll down the street, following in its wake. "Um. So, do you have a plan? For dealing with your ghost?"

Kris is 95% sure Adam's just humoring him, but fuck if the other 5% isn't appealing. "Not yet. I was supposed to be concentrating on that, but I ended up at the studio all day so..."

"Hey, _that's good_," Adam says, focusing too much on the last part of the sentence. "But not good about the plan thing," he amends. "So um. I did some thinking, after you left. Now, don't laugh okay? Because I'm serious. Have you considered those paranormal reality shows? You know, you could like, call up their producers, sell them your story. They make you a celebrity and maybe even kill your ghosts?"

Kris stops and glares up at Adam's shining, earnest face.

"You could even put some of your stuff on the soundtrack, sell some records. What do you think?"

He glares and glares and finally Adam cracks and starts laughing, and Kris is a little pissed, yeah, but it's so completely ridiculous it's refreshing, breaks him out of his sulk.

Adam throws an arm around his neck, pokes him in the ribs. "Man, your _face_."

"Ha ha, not funny," he tries to sound severe but it's a struggle.

Adam pokes him again and says, turning them back toward the club, "It was my idea, so I want a piece of your end."

"You want a piece of my end," Kris repeats, half innuendo, half relief that Adam isn't running away from him in terror.

"Well, now that you mention it..."

Kris follows Adam through the backstage entrance and tries to stand out of the way in the small dressing room as Adam hangs up the discarded tunic and leggings in a big storage locker. He tosses the boots onto the pile of footwear at the bottom and shuts the door, closes the combination lock. Makeup case in hand, Adam gestures to the exit again and when they're in the parking lot it's natural for Kris to offer Adam a ride home, since Metairie is on his way to the airport.

But in the car, Adam pulls his seat forward a little and doesn't bother to hide the fact that he's staring at Kris's face. When they pull up at his apartment building, Adam reaches his hand out, hovers it over Kris's clenched fist on the wheel. "I don't want you to be out there alone," he says.

Kris twitches.

"I just. I need to know you're okay, and if you're alone out there I'll worry."

It's not a convincing argument, especially when Kris sees the guarded look in Adam's eyes. But it's _Adam_ who is—_isn't_—asking, and even though Kris put $55 of hard earned cash into that motel room for tonight, he doesn't want to be alone either.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he admits, leaves himself open to persuasion.

"We're gonna figure that out together." Adam's hand moves, lands on his arm instead of his fist. "That's what friends do. Okay?"

And there it is: friendship. The prettiest joke Kris has heard since 'til death do us part. He says, "My stuff is at the motel."

Adam settles back against the seat. "Then let's go get it."

Kris puts the car in drive and doesn't look at his passenger.

He carries his backpack and Adam carries his guitar and when his things are all in Adam's living room, Kris takes another moment to wonder what the hell they're doing. Why is Adam letting his life get tangled up with Kris's like this? He knows, deep down, that Adam doesn't believe him, yet Adam's still looking out for him. God, if he'd gone off with Ben, if something had _happened_... What are the odds that Ben would've been as understanding as Adam?

Kris spreads a blanket out on the familiar couch and pulls out his pajamas, sits and waits his turn in the bathroom. Adam has the water running, the door mostly closed, and then Kris hears a gasp, a soft, "Shit, shit, _ow_ you fucker, _shit_," and he stands up to investigate.

Through the crack in the door he glimpses Adam bent over the sink in just his boxers, face inches from the mirror, pulling the second appliqué off his eyebrow with both hands, wincing and going ridiculously slow.

Kris grins a little despite himself and says, loud enough to be heard, "Didn't your momma teach you—you gotta yank 'em off fast."

Adam yelps and his eyes shoot up to see him in the mirror. He rolls his eyes and bats at the door with one hand, tugging it open so they can talk. "Yeah, well, yanking loses eyebrows. Slow and steady is the path to true beauty." He leans back to the mirror, lifting up the edge of the sequined piece again.

Kris doesn't know why he keeps watching. He'd wanted to do this earlier; take the fake stuff off so he could see the real Adam underneath, but that isn't accurate. Adam is Adam, no matter what accessories he wears. Adam makes another pitiful sound and dances a little with his feet as he renews his tugging. Kris smiles and leans against the doorframe to watch. It takes another fifteen seconds of squirming torture before the last corner lets go and Adam flicks the rainbow onto the sink with a look of pure loathing. And then he sighs and turns the pair upside down, dabs the backs with a damp towel.

"You're keeping them?"

"Probably. Hurt like a son of a bitch but they look fucking _fabulous_." Adam lays them down on the towel and pats them flat, then scoops up some cold water to rub over his face. The skin is red and glowing around his eyes. Kris thinks he should get him some ice, but he's held there by Adam's gaze, brilliant blue against the red when he wipes away the drops and sees Kris still there.

The moment stretches and Kris is stepping forward without thinking, approaching the mirror. If he looked to Adam's left, he would see his own face, would know what he was saying with it. He moves to a point just behind Adam's stooped shoulders, where he can see Adam's reflection head on.

Adam watches him, hands poised against his temples, breathing hard. And then he says, "Fuck it," and turns, pulls Kris against him and kisses him steady and slow, fingers roving over eyebrows, ears, cheeks, and curling at the nape of his neck.

It takes him apart, that much attention and care, just like at the costume shop. Every vulnerability Kris has is suddenly ripped open and bleeding in front of someone who knows the worst of him. He whimpers and tries to keep his knees strong as Adam sucks on his lower lip, tilting Kris's chin up for a better angle.

He can't have this, he brutally reminds himself. He can't fall in love like this, not with a complete stranger. Adam knows him, but Kris doesn't know _Adam_. He tries to take over the kiss, step up the pace, change the mood, but Adam won't be rushed. He flirts with Kris's tongue, licking and sucking slowly, frustrating Kris's attempts to hide behind lust.

Until Kris stops fighting and lets Adam give all he wants. Lets Adam guide him to the bedroom, strip the clothes off him and lay down beside him, stroke him until they're both shuddering, and Kris comes arching and moaning into Adam's mouth, gasping out half-formed words that Adam licks away.

**   
  
**

After their 2 p.m. breakfast, Adam lifts his legs so Kris can sit on the couch and then stretches out again, legs draped over Kris's thighs.

Kris stabs his last piece of cantaloupe and bites it off the fork, careful not to drip on Adam's baby-blue pajama bottoms. And then he says, "Tell me what you're thinking about," because he feels like they've gotten to the point where he can at least ask that, even if Adam doesn't have to answer him yet.

But Adam says, "You," without hesitating.

Kris's heart beats a little faster in response. "What about me?"

Adam's face shifts from thoughtful to frowning. "I'm trying to believe you."

Kris swallows the cantaloupe and drops his fork in the bowl. "Oh."

"See, I believe that _you_ believe there's a ghost, but I just...I can't make that leap."

"I know," Kris agrees, trying not to take it personally. "I didn't believe it for the first few weeks either. And I'm the one it was happening to."

"If you had some kind of proof..."

"I know!" Kris agrees again, more sharply. "But if I had proof, I'd be selling the documentary rights. There's just me, and the things I know I saw. That's all I've got."

Adam digs his heel into Kris's thigh for a second. "I wanna believe you, I really do. So I was thinking. If I spent the whole night at your place, would I-"

"_No_!" Kris says, one hand grabbing the bowl harder, the other squeezing Adam's ankle.

Adam slaps on an innocent expression as he rotates his ankle slightly in Kris's grip. "Huh. I don't recall giving you this hard a time scoring an invite to _my_ place..."

Kris is deadly serious, though. "You're not going in there again. If it hurt you.... I can't let that happen."

"So far it's just _scared_ you, right? Moved things around? So what makes you think it'll hurt me? It left me alone last time-"

Kris shakes his head, getting angry at the fright Adam had caused him. "I can't believe you went there alone. That was _so stupid_, Adam."

"Tell you what," Adam squirms on the couch, pulling himself upright so he can reach Kris's cheek with his fingertips. "What if I don't go alone?" Kris jerks back at the harmless words that feel like a knife attack. Adam bites his lip but doesn't drop his hand, leaves it out there. "I don't know what else to do here, sweetie. How are we supposed to beat this thing if you won't even let me see it?"

"I don't wanna go back there," Kris begs, even though he knows it's inevitable—he'll have to go back for all his belongings, at least in the daylight.

"I won't let anything happen to you, baby, I promise." Adam is looking at him like he wants to wrap him in cotton wool and protect him from the world and Kris closes his eyes and lets himself lean back toward that outstretched hand.

It's a selfish hope, lying to himself that it could possibly be okay to do that to Adam, to let Adam bring it on himself. He shakes his head, but that slides Adam's fingers against his skin in a caress. Words; he needs to tell him no with words.

"And if you're worried about your boyfriend finding your porn stash, forget it. I already know it's under the jeans in your bottom drawer."

The crack makes Kris laugh and the word makes the knife twist sharply and he bends over and wraps his arms around Adam's knees and holds on.

**   
  
**

It has to be _that_ night, because once he gave Adam permission, the man couldn't be stopped. He's on a mission to save Kris from whatever demon Kris's mind has cooked up—despite Adam's protests that he's willing to be open-minded about the supernatural, Kris doesn't think Adam's actually trying all that hard to hide his disbelief—and the sooner he can get Kris straightened out, the better. Kris feels guilty when Adam calls out sick from his Saturday night show at Simon's, making up a gruesome story about one of the rainbow-sequin patches slicing into his cornea, necessitating at least 24 hours in a dark room without movement, but no need to worry; he should be fine in time for Sunday's show.

Adam provides the energy for Kris's day, smiling and telling him how awesome everything is going to be, not showing the least bit of nervousness. So Kris pretends that Adam's right and goes through the motions of a day: flips through the songbooks in Adam's bookcase; watches TV for an hour; eats the avocado salad Adam lovingly prepares. And then Adam packs an overnight bag, a couple sandwiches, a few beers, and Kris, and puts them all in the car an hour before sunset.

Kris drives them back to the condo, singing along to the pop station and losing himself in harmony with Adam's amazing voice until the exit sign comes up and he can see the roofs of his development over to the west. The sun is near the tops of the trees when they get out of the car and Kris looks up those steps, instinct telling him to get back in his car and drive away. Adam stands at his shoulder, though, and Kris isn't going to chicken out in front of him. So he straightens his spine and leads the way.

When he gets halfway up the stairs he spots Mrs. Mitchell standing in her open doorway looking the two of them over. "Evening, Mrs. Mitchell," he says, smile tight.

"Allen," she says dispassionately, her eyes focused on the man behind him.

"This is my friend Adam," Kris volunteers, but when he glances over his shoulder, Adam is staring at her just as suspiciously.

"We've met," Adam mutters.

Mrs. Mitchell frowns at the singer and then slams her door shut as Adam reaches the top of the stairs.

"She gives me the creeps," Adam whispers as Kris fumbles out his keys. "I think she watches your door or something. 4 a.m., she's standing in that doorway in green velour sweats and full Tammy Faye makeup. What the hell."

"Don't be ridiculous," Kris reasons. "She's just bored. Or lonely."

"Or _creepy_."

Kris gets the lock to turn and the door swings open and he catches his breath, standing on the threshold of his fears.

And then Adam steps around him, walks right through the door into the condo like it's just an ordinary doorway. Kris follows, drawn after him by an invisible tether, enters his home and lets the door close behind him. It looks the same as last Wednesday, at least in the living room where there was nothing to move around. But in the kitchen...

"What's her deal?"

It takes Kris a second to pull his eyes away from the cereal exploded all over the linoleum and counters, to focus on the conversation Adam wants him to have. "Uh. I don't know. I heard she's been here since it was built. She never leaves her place, not that I've seen. The mailman thinks she's agoraphobic."

Adam sets the bags down on the counter, sending Lucky Charms cascading onto the floor with a casual sweep of his hand. "An agoraphobe who opens her door every time she hears you coming?" He shakes his head and turns his back to crunch over to the refrigerator to chill the 6-pack.

Kris is trying to keep it together, but it's exactly as hard as he'd expected. His abs are trembling, his stomach threatening upheaval.

Adam looks up when he doesn't answer, a frown on his face. "It's gonna be okay, babe. Trust me. Now, which way is your dustpan?"

Adam shoos Kris out to sit on one of the couches while he cleans the kitchen, keeping Kris talking the whole time he sweeps, shoves things into trash bags. Kris talks about whatever Adam wants him to, from the people he's hooked up with since he moved here, to his strategies for recording demos to sell his music. The tension doesn't leave him; he sits with his hands in fists, staring at the blank TV screen as it throws his reflection back at him in the dying sunlight. And then Adam switches on the lamps and draws the curtains closed and hands him a beer and sits next to him on the couch and says, "What's in the violin case?"

"Viola," Kris corrects, answering his question by accident.

Adam grins. "You play the viola. What's up with that?"

"Bluegrass; pretty standard stuff in Arkansas. Just cause you grew up on some beach in California and can't relate to us Southerners..."

Adam's smile dims and Kris notices, coming out of himself enough to see what he did just by referencing Adam's past. He opens his mouth to ask about it but Adam says, perking back up, "You have hidden depths, Southern boy!"

Kris ignores that diversion attempt. "You don't talk about yourself," he says to the beer in Adam's hands. When he flicks his eyes up, Adam looks caught and nervous.

"I talk all the time," he deflects.

"About things and other people. Not about _you_," Kris insists.

"I disagree-"

"Adam, you're going to a lot of trouble to fix me here," Kris says, his tension finally finding an outlet, a target. "But I don't know what's going on with _you_. What are you getting out of this?"

"I'm not getting- This is for _you_, Kris."

Kris can't help the skeptical look.

Adam squirms and amends, "Okay, maybe I get a normal boyfriend out of it."

Kris shakes his head, frustrated. "I get _that_, but it's... I wanna know where you're coming from. Why won't you talk about your past? What's so bad that you-"

"My life is not open for discussion tonight," Adam says stiffly, a wall between them now.

"Says who? You've got me spilling my guts about _everything_. It's not fair that you're holding everything back."

"Life isn't fair."

"You did _not_ just use that platitude on me." Kris is really warming to this fight. It feels good to be something other than afraid here.

Adam looks momentarily embarrassed. "Crap, I didn't mean to say that."

"But you did. It's important to you, isn't it; _your_ life isn't fair?"

"No, my life's been-" Adam stops short and turns his head away.

"Come on, spit it out! You think I'm crazy already. So what's so awful you can't talk about it with a crazy person?"

Adam stands up and paces and it finally occurs to Kris that if he presses much harder, Adam might leave. _Oh shit_.

"I'm sorry," Kris blurts, "I shouldn't have-"

Adam looks at him, surprised by his apology. "What?"

"I'm sorry," he repeats, wishing he could take it back. "I shouldn't have said that. It's none of my business. You've been awesome, and I-" Adam blanches and Kris stops talking, lets Adam see how much he regrets pushing his boundaries.

"You have a right to know," Adam says, like it's painful to admit. "But I'm just not ready to...go there."

Kris moves his hand against the back of the couch, the slightest signal. Adam sees it, knows what it means. He comes back to the couch and sits down awkwardly. Kris doesn't touch him, gives him space.

Adam says softly, "I'll talk about my...issues, but not tonight. Okay?"

"Yeah," Kris accepts, and they look at each other and at the beers in their laps until Kris can feel the silence start gnawing at him again, reminding him that he's not in a safe place. It has to be filled somehow, so Kris offers a do over: "So yeah. I play the viola."

"Yeah," Adam says eagerly.

"I started it in school, but I had a private tutor, too. I was never gonna be winning competitions with it, but you know, it fit into my plan of making it big in Nashville..."

"Nashville," Adam glowers, clearly remembering their first conversation at his apartment.

"Yeah. But down here, nobody's doing bluegrass. At least, not that they're booking session work for. So she's been boxed up for a long while."

"You don't practice?"

"Not here. The bylaws are really strict about noise, 'specially at night."

"Well," Adam pulls his cell phone out to check the time, "it's 9:30 on a Saturday. That's not night, right?"

"You're not serious," he protests, although he should have seen it coming.

So Kris ends up pulling the case from the bottom of his closet, unpacking the viola and tuning off of the pitch pipe in the side pocket. He stands in his living room, trying to clear his head of all the bad things this place represents. He looks down the strings at Adam's face, open with expectation, and says, "This is one of my favorites. Not many people know it, though," and he starts to play _Return to the Brandywine_.

Adam is watching him, his eyes big and smile broad, and Kris can't tell if he's laughing on the inside or not, so he closes his eyes and just lets the melody flow, sweet and nostalgic. When he opens his eyes on the last note, Adam's smile is soft. "Beautiful," he says, and Kris thinks he means it. "Play another."

Kris starts the _Lovers Waltz_ next, giving Adam one he'll recognize. Adam's expression doesn't change, though; there's no sign he knows this piece. When he finishes, Kris lowers the viola and says, "You really don't know _any_ bluegrass, do you," incredulous.

"Nope, none," Adam says cheerfully. "And until today, I've been loud and proud about it. But I think I could watch you play that thing for years and not get bored."

It's just flirting, but Kris has realized how much he's missed playing his girl, so he takes Adam's words at face value and tells him, "Then get yourself another beer, cause I'm not done yet."

He plays another dozen songs, getting himself back in tune with the strings and bow, the emotions he can express without words or vocal chords. But when he glances at the DVD clock and it shows 10:05, he wraps the song up just one verse and chorus shy and packs away the instrument before the neighbors start complaining.

Adam pulls out the chicken and avocado sandwiches and makes Kris eat all of his, even though he isn't hungry. They finish the beers over Adam's dirty and amusing stories about the people at Simon's, even though Kris can tell that Adam feels uncomfortable. Like he suspects Kris is gonna call him on the shallowness at any second. So Kris laughs recklessly, loud and deep, pretending nothing's wrong between or around them until he convinces himself that it's the truth.

It's well past midnight when Adam yawns and says, totally organically, "Time for bed?"

Kris yawns too and says, "Yeah," and then tenses up all over again. "I mean, no. Not yet."

"C'mon, sweetie," Adam overrides him, standing up and taking hold of Kris's shirt. "I'm tired. We're going to bed."

He pulls Kris to his feet by the sleeve of his cotton t and tows him toward the bedroom. As they pass the kitchen Adam's heel kicks one of the empty beer bottles and Kris flinches at the sound, wound tighter than ever as he remembers the things he's heard at night, the things he's _felt_.

Adam doesn't even try to reason with him, just stands Kris in front of the bed and orders him to remove his clothes, presses pajamas into his hands and threatens to help him dress himself when he doesn't immediately put them on. Kris makes his hands move, steps into the pants, pulls on the new t-shirt, not looking while Adam strips next to him. And then Adam walks him to the side of the bed, turns on the bedside lamp and pulls back the sheets, helps Kris climb in and get settled.

Adam walks around to the other side of the bed and slides under the covers, pulls Kris into his arms, against his bare chest. Kris is shaking; he's one loud sound away from chattering teeth. He tries to lay still, focuses on his muscles instead of what's making them shake. Adam runs his hand down the front of Kris's t-shirt, kisses the back of his neck. He shifts his hips closer, traces lower, over Kris's soft cock through the pajama bottoms. Kris follows the touches with his eyes closed, trying to let Adam distract him from his terror, but it isn't working.

After another moment, Adam kisses up into his hair and says, "I promise, everything's gonna be okay, baby."

Kris feels him squeeze tighter before Adam puts his head down on the pillow behind him and his arms stay warm and strong around him.


	3. Chapter 3

Kris wakes up to the sound of the living room curtains being drawn. His stomach clenches in the familiar fear until he remembers he isn't alone, realizes it's bright in the room; did he really make it to dawn?

"Adam?" he calls. He starts to sit up, blinking against the light, but he's suddenly slammed down onto the mattress and held there. He can feel it sitting on his chest, snarling down at him, and he tries to scream, tries to struggle.

"Kris, what-" Adam says right beside him and oh god Kris never should have brought Adam here, he's in danger and-

Something shatters out in the living room and Adam gasps, leans over him saying, "What the hell was that, Kris! Kris!" Adam looks panicked. The lights flicker, all of them at once like a brown out, and Kris can't tell Adam to get out, can't even turn his head to look as Adam grunts next to him, saying, "Kris, _move_ damn it!" because it's right there in the room, and also in the living room, and even in the bathroom, and he'd once thought that was a _safe_ place. It's everywhere and moving and so angry, so full of hate. It wants to bite into his stomach and rip out his guts, but it doesn't have teeth, doesn't have claws, _not yet_, and Kris is making high, whimpering sounds in his throat because it's just a matter of time, it's getting stronger every night, it's going to get its teeth and it'll-

"I'm here, Kris, I'm right here. Breathe, baby. It's gonna be okay, I promise, everything's gonna be fine. Shh, just stay calm, keep breathing, everything's fine." The shadows on the ceiling go crazy as a lamp flies across the room. "Shit!" Adam yells. "Holy fucking shit! This isn't happening. Leave him the hell alone!"

And Adam is standing on the bed trying to face it and something bangs impossibly loud in Kris's ears and Adam falls out of his line of sight and Kris is screaming past his frozen vocal cords, something keening and awful, because Adam isn't talking anymore, Adam is hurt or dead, he's _dead_ and it's Kris's fault, he was the one who knew this thing, knew what it could do, and he'd wanted to convince Adam so badly.

Kris stares at the ceiling, his eyes locked open, but he can't see anything, can only go by what his ears are telling him, and what that _thing_ is telling him, whispering to every cell in his body.

It's so quiet where Adam should be. And it's quiet in the other rooms now. And the hatred is lessening, the presence fading away, but not the paralysis. Not yet. That always lasts the longest.

At last, with a gasp that burns like unfiltered cigarettes, the weight is gone and he can move, there's nothing on him, there's nothing-

There's something on his wrist and he whips his head over to see Adam half on the bed, squeezing his wrist in a death grip, his face white, hair a mess. "Adam," Kris croaks.

Adam makes a noise and pulls hard, drags him off the bed and into his arms on the floor, clutches him for a few seconds and then orders, "Grab anything you need, we're leaving _now_."

Kris can't stop crying—has been crying for minutes, it seems—but he makes himself let go of Adam and grabs up shoes, jeans, a few more shirts from his closet, his music notebooks, cell phone charger, old laptop, and shoves them all into a suitcase. Adam has his own jeans on, if not closed, and he throws his shoes into Kris's suitcase too, grabs a fistful of boxers from the top drawer, an armful of photos from the floor, and throws those in to top it off. Kris zips up the suitcase, Adam grabs jackets, keys, and viola case from the living room, and they're stumbling out the door barefoot, past the shadow that moves through the light shining under Mrs. Mitchell's door, down the covered stairway to the car in under 90 seconds.

Kris throws the luggage in the backseat. Adam runs around the car and folds himself to fit behind the wheel, sticks the keys in the ignition. He barely waits for Kris to get the passenger side door closed before they're rolling, tires squealing and automatic transmission revving up to 4,000 RPMs before they're out of the cul-de-sac.

As the distance grows between the condo and them, Kris starts to feel better. He can reach out and touch Adam if he wants to, he can look at Adam hunched over the steering wheel and know that he's alive, they're both alive, they made it.

"You okay?" Adam asks, catching Kris's eyes in the rearview mirror.

"I think so," Kris says, taking a quick mental inventory. He's definitely alive. He can finally tell that the torn open feeling in his gut isn't actually a wound, just the ache of the adrenaline rush and panic wearing off. His pulse has slowed and he can breathe again even if his throat is still swollen from tears. But there's an actual physical pain he can't explain and that's new, makes him need to remember the details he would rather forget. "My shoulder hurts. I don't know what..."

"I tried to get you off the bed," Adam says softly. "You were lying there and I kept pulling and I couldn't _move_ you. Something was keeping you there..."

_Move damn it._ His whole body jerks in response to the remembered command and he clutches the growing bruise around his wrist.

Adam shudders next to him and the engine revs louder. Kris tries to concentrate on the street lights flashing ahead and above them, and not on the hollow blackness that closes in as they cross Lake Pontchartrain at 4 in the morning.

Adam parks the Toyota outside a Waffle House as soon as they clear the causeway and they wordlessly open the suitcase, donning shoes and the rest of their clothing before heading inside. They don't talk again until they're huddled side by side in a corner booth, mugs of hot coffee in their hands and their eyes continuously scanning the room and the night outside the windows.

"That shit was real," Adam eventually says.

"Yeah." There's this sickening twist of relief in the back of his throat that Kris wants to spit out, wants to not be grateful that Adam went through that with him.

"No, holy _shit_, I can't believe that shit was real."

"Yeah."

"No wonder you've been a complete nut job about it."

Kris doesn't have the energy to be offended. "Nice, man."

Adam drags him in for a side hug and kisses the top of his head. "I'd apologize for not believing you before, etcetera, but I'm still in fight-or-flight mode. So let's figure out what to _do_ about this crapstorm you're living under, and I'll apologize later."

"Don't look at me," Kris says glumly. "If I had any good ideas, I wouldn't've been hooking up just for an excuse not to go home."

"Oh my god, that place is _not_ a home. Don't even use that word. That's, like, _Rosemary's Condo_ you were living in."

A smile quirks the corner of Kris's mouth and he admits, "I was thinking _Condo of the Damned_, but I like yours better."

Adam shakes his head and says with conviction, "You've gotta sell it. There's no way you can live there with that."

Of course not. _It_ wouldn't let him. But, "I can't," is all he says.

"Yes you can. It's not a great market, but there's gotta be some sap willing to pay bottom dollar. Slash the prices, take a loss; aside from a few busted lamps, nothing's obviously wrong with it or anything..."

"No!" Kris protests too loudly. He drops his voice to explain, "I can't send anyone else in there knowing what it'll.... It'll be on my head, and I _can't_ do that. I shouldn't have let _you _go in there. I'm so sorry I let you talk-"

"Okay, no, stop that. That was _my call_. You don't get to feel guilty about any of this. You just have to get out from under it."

"But I can't sell it," Kris repeats with stubborn hopelessness.

Adam sighs, "You're right, I know. Just..." Adam leans harder against him, slurps his coffee. "Okay, you've got insurance, right? I say we burn the bitch down."

Kris can almost see the cleansing flames, smell the thick smoke, but, "It's a _condo_, Adam! If my place burns they all burn!"

"Well _shit_!" Adam slaps his hand on the tabletop, shifting unhappily on the bench. "You know.... What the hell is _wrong_ with this thing, hanging out in a 5-year old condo in Covington! Shouldn't it be haunting some big, creepy house in the French Quarter?"

Adam isn't the first of them to ask that question, but Kris suddenly resents the implication. "You would've believed me from the start if I'd said it was in the French Quarter, wouldn't you!" He leans back so he can catch Adam's face with a glare.

"I don't know. Maybe?" Adam shrugs, not looking contrite. "I don't believe in ghosts, but I just met one so...what the hell do I know?"

Kris shakes his head and drinks his coffee, fights to keep it from coming back up. "What do we _do_?"

After a long moment Adam offers, "My reality show idea is starting to sound pretty good right now..."

"Fuck you."

"How about, like, an exorcism?"

"That's for _people_, not houses. And I'm lapsed-Baptist, anyway. What about you?"

"Lapsed-Jew. Punt."

Kris folds his arms and tries not to sulk too obviously. "We don't even know who or what this thing _is_," he sighs. "They would've had to disclose any suicides or murders during closing, and it's not like there are condo bylaws on how to handle a haunting." Adam had just said life's not fair a few hours ago. For the umpteenth time, Kris fights the urge to whine about the unfairness of this happening to him.

"Oh my god. Can you imagine what the next home inspection would be like?" Adam whispers, trying to hide the giggles Kris can feel building in his chest.

"_Focus_."

"I'm sorry, not funny, just. Yeah."

And Adam giggling next to him, trying to be serious for him, actually settles the last of Kris's panic—the low level he's had with him for months. "I'm never going back," he says with sudden certainty. After months of wondering what to do, carrying that burden all by himself, he's finally got it in perspective; some fights just aren't worth it. "I don't care if I go broke, if they foreclose, evict me. They can't make me go back there." He's beaming, a huge smile he can feel stretching his lips and cheeks. "And I'm gonna be okay."

Adam hugs him again, even tighter, pressing his face into the back of Kris's neck. "You _are_. I'm not letting you go back there. You come crash at my place for however long it takes."

And that sounds _amazing_, not having to worry about the condo anymore. He could stop paying the mortgage this very week, throw out the bill at the bottom of his backpack to speed up the process. Once it's no longer under his name he can put it behind him for good. Adam is a warm, solid wall anchoring him to reality, reminding him that he could have a life outside of that nightmare. Fuck all the debt; he'll take the shame of bankruptcy over one more night in that place. If he doesn't go back, it can never touch him again. If it's no longer his, it's no longer his problem...

"Oh god, they'll sell it."

"What?" Adam mumbles against his skin, lips and nose smooshed against his spine.

Kris tenses up all over again and shakes his head, Adam's hair tickling his ear. "If they foreclose, the bank'll resell it. To somebody who won't know what's _in there_."

Adam squeezes harder. "Not your problem."

"No, no," Kris argues, because it is, it _so_ is. He can't let it get its claws, _fangs_, in anybody else.

Adam grips his shoulders and shakes him, looks down at him sternly. "It's not _your_ responsibility to protect the world from ghosts that like moderately-priced condominium communities." Kris sticks out his jaw in protest. "I'm serious. Nobody warned _you_, okay? It wasn't anybody's responsibility before you, so you don't have to take it on yourself now."

Kris twists his body away and looks at the tops of heads he can see over the plastic booth dividers around the restaurant. Unsuspecting people with no idea that things like that are real. "Yeah I do."

Adam doesn't react for a long moment and Kris is steeling himself for the inevitable, although he hadn't realized how much he'd been relying on a unified front to get through it. Adam was the one who'd started the 'we' talk, and in the last five minutes Kris had made that word a key part of his plans.

Just before Kris can offer him the out he deserves, Adam sighs and curses, "God damn it," as expressive as the filthiest insult or deathbed curse.

Kris pushes at his coffee cup rather than look at him.

"Alright, I get it," Adam says at last. "But that means we're still stuck on figuring out how to kill it."

Kris spins around, his knees colliding with Adam's, his funny bone whacking the edge of the table, but he finds Adam's lips and grabs his hair and kisses him desperately.

Adam kisses him back, but pulls away immediately. "What, you thought I was gonna pussy out on you?" His tone is teasing, but his smile wobbles and Kris kisses him again, slower, wondering how the hell he met someone like Adam in the middle of a waking nightmare. When Kris finally lets go of Adam's hair, the singer twists his fingers with Kris's on the table and looks at their coffee cups with shining blue eyes, says, "We're gonna need another pot, cause I'm not leaving here before sunrise."

****   
  


Dawn dispels a lot of the dark thoughts circling in Kris's head, and Adam throws down a $20 for the tolerant waitress and they head out to the car, barely awake. They lean on each other in the elevator up to Adam's apartment. Kris drops his suitcase on the floor just inside the doorway and Adam heads straight for the bedroom, flicking on all the lights as he goes. Daylight is streaming through the windows. Kris follows, pulling his clothes off along the way.

They crawl into bed naked, Adam spooned up behind him like the night before, keeping Kris safe. Kris closes his eyes against the light and sleeps without dreaming.

The alarm goes off at 2:15 in the afternoon. Kris opens his eyes to the broad expanse of freckles that is Adam's back, Kris's arm draped over the taller man's stomach. He grunts and turns his head to see the clock, jostles Adam to wake him.

"'s 2 o'clock. D'you need to be up?"

Adam moans a little without using consonants and doesn't move.

Good enough. Kris rolls away from Adam, flings an arm out to slap the snooze button, silencing the obnoxious car commercial. And then he rolls over again to snuggle against Adam's back, arm wrapped around him as he passes out.

Three jarring snoozes later, Kris is getting seriously pissed at the alarm clock. He gives up on sleep and drags himself out of bed, stumbling toward Adam's bathroom for a shower, eyes only half-open. He ends up just standing under the warm spray, too tired to reach for the color-safe shampoo. He hasn't felt this exhausted since...since the final days of the divorce proceedings.

The bathroom door opens and someone moves on the other side of the translucent curtain, yawning loudly. Kris lets Adam take his morning piss and then pulls back the curtain to grab his arm, tugs him closer for a kiss.

Adam protests the water spraying on him, Kris dripping on him, and then gives up and leans closer, mumbles against his lips words that feel like good morning. Kris smiles and pulls him the rest of the way into the shower where he can push Adam against the tiles and lean his weight on him. Adam sighs and runs his hand through Kris's spiky brown hair, kisses him again and again, his tongue slowly stroking Kris to full consciousness, until he can stand up on his own, rock his hips against Adam with growing urgency.

Kris slips a hand down between them to touch Adam, hard and hot against his stomach. Adam bites at his tongue and Kris moans, his pulse picking up. He needs this, needs Adam, needs to be as close as he can get.

Adam feels his new intensity, pushes off of the wall and ducks his head under the water before asking, "Can I wash your back?"

"Please." Kris turns to brace himself against the back of the shower stall, his hands finding purchase on the cool, wet tiles.

A bottle cap snaps while Kris listens, eyes closed, nerves open and waiting. Warm hands slide up his back and out over his shoulder blades, slippery with a citrus-scented soap. Kris arches into them, hisses a "yes" as they push hard over sore muscles, forcing the physical traces of last night out of his flesh. He's sweating already, can taste the salt on his upper lip when he licks. Adam removes his hands for a brief moment, returns with more soap, squeezing Kris's neck until the muscles there relax. Kris moans again and shifts his hips, slides his legs a little wider.

Adam's fingers drag down his spine, going right for his ass, spreading his cheeks and nudging at his hole. Adam leans close and nips at his ear, whispers, "Baby, I..."

"God, please," Kris pleads.

Adam slips a finger inside, slick and easy and hot. Kris squirms and rocks back a little. Adam gives him another, squeezing it in, then pulling out and shoving back in, fucking him open and loose. Kris leans his forehead against the tiles and pants as Adam says, "You're so pretty like this, I can't even take it. Open up for me. That's it. You want another?"

Kris nods, loving the ache that's starting in his thighs, his hips thrusting back against Adam's fingers as he pulls out and lines up with three, pushes in, pushing him wide open before crooking at just the right angle to make him gasp and start thrusting in earnest.

And then Adam goes still behind him, in him, and says, "Fuck, I don't have the condoms-"

"Oh my god," Kris says, banging his forehead against the wall. "Go! Go get them! I'll wait_ right here_." He points an imperious finger toward the door, hand knocking the shower curtain askew.

Adam yanks his fingers out and Kris hisses, but the curtain rings jangle sharply and he's pleased to open his eyes and see Adam's dripping ass running out the door of the bathroom, getting water everywhere.

He returns a moment later, holding the box up like a prize, and Kris doesn't care that he's braced naked and exposed in the open shower, his wet skin cooling, his cock hard and obvious. He can't possibly feel awkward when Adam is so clearly all for him.

Adam fumbles out a packet and tears it open, rolls it on, gives Kris an embarrassed thumbs up as he squirts out a dollop of lube. Kris rolls his eyes and shimmies his hips in invitation and Adam steps carefully back into the shower stall, drawing the curtain closed around them.

Afterward, glowing and exhausted, Kris tries to take Adam back to bed for a nap. Adam looks torn, says, "But the coffee pot's on...."

Kris should be outraged that his boyfriend is choosing coffee over him, but then Kris's stomach rumbles and Adam grins hopefully. "You're lucky, mister," he says, shoving Adam's shoulder as they leave the bathroom.

Adam pours them coffee and lets Kris scramble up some egg whites for their breakfast, supervising the whole time. Kris grumbles, "I can make _eggs_, Adam. I used to make my own food before I met you."

Adam mumbles into his coffee mug, "The contents of your fridge strenuously disagree."

"So you know all my dirty little takeout secrets, huh?"

"And your addiction to sugary cereals. Tsk, Kristopher. What would your mother say?"

Kris swats at his leg with the eggy-spatula and Adam dodges, swiveling his ass in tight jeans with rhinestones on the back pockets.

They sit at Adam's small table and eat like people who aren't couch potatoes for the first time, and then Adam says, before they clear away the plates, "Did you see _Drag Me To Hell_?"

"Hell yeah," Kris grins. "With all the corpse vomit. That was fucking _funny_."

"Yeah. But how cool was the séance scene, with the goat?"

"And the guy gets possessed and tries to kill them, yeah. Do you have that movie?"

"No, but...I meant, like, the woman trying to break the gypsy curse for the girl. Food for thought."

Kris blinks at Adam's shifty eyes and then grimaces. "Adam. I really doubt I've been cursed by a gypsy."

"Mrs. Mitchell-"

"-is _not_ a gypsy. Okay? I think she's on some 24-7 customer service job or something. Like a telecommuter. She hasn't put a curse on me, so let it go."

Adam frowns but changes the subject. "How about _The Exorcist_?"

"What about it? Have I seen it? Yes. Did I like it? Not really. Do I think a Catholic exorcism is appropriate for my _condo_? We covered that last night."

"What about _Supernatural_? On TV? Sam &amp; Dean are pretty fucking hot."

"You're totally a Dean-boy," Kris accuses.

"...short, muscled, sensitive, _gorgeous_..."

"I'm sitting right here."

"I meant _you_, love," Adam teases.

Kris fights back a grin and shoves at his elbow. "And what inspiration am I supposed to take from your favorite TV show?"

"You kill ghosts by salting and burning their corpses."

"I don't know where to start," Kris sighs. "With the part where we don't know who this ghost was, or the part where I'm not about to _dig up a body_ in this lifetime."

"We could try some Ouija boards and hand holding..."

"Yes on the hand holding, nix on the Ouija boards. Seriously, Adam, we're not gonna get the answer from a TV show."

Adam chews on his thumb, looking determined to figure it out right then and there. And then he kicks a little at the opposite chair and says, staring at the table, "There's a little voodoo shop a few blocks from Simon's. I've walked past it a few times."

Kris snorts. "I'm not gonna fall for some tourist trap voodoo crap."

"Hey, I don't believe in it either, but neither of us believed in _ghosts_ a few months ago," Adam protests. "So who knows, maybe they can help. At least there'll be real people there, since you have a problem with Hollywood as my oracle."

Kris hesitates. It's a really stupid idea. Totally stupid. It's also the best idea they've come up with so far. "I'll...consider it," he relents.

"We could go before the show tonight. It's Sunday, but everything on Bourbon Street's open late."

"Maybe."

****   
  


That's how they end up standing outside the tackiest tourist trap in New Orleans at 8:30 that night, Kris with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at Adam.

"Look, let's at least talk to them," Adam says through gritted teeth, refusing to admit his idea sucked. "What's the worst that can happen?"

"You are so gonna pay for this," Kris mutters as he pulls open the door, a small bell ringing over his head.

It smells like dust and incense and lavender inside, both sides of the empty, narrow little shop lined floor-to-ceiling with jars of twigs, powders, liquids, and baskets of blank, faceless dolls.

"Oh, this is _great_." Kris scowls at the voodoo dolls and the strings of bright Mardi Gras beads hanging from the ceiling.

"Can I help you?" a young guy about their own age asks, appearing behind the counter 10 feet ahead.

Adam takes the lead, walking purposefully up to the desk with Kris in tow. "Hi," he says, his tone brusque, "can you direct us to a _real_ voodoo shop?"

The brown-skinned guy's caramel-colored eyes go wide and he huffs, "Excuse me? I don't go into your place of business and ask to be directed to some _real_ drag queens."

They both gape, and after a long moment Adam says, "_Snap_!" looking like it hurts.

"How did you-" Kris starts to ask.

"Waxed eyebrows," the guy says, his eyes flicking insultingly over Adam. "So, what problems do the drag queen and the little gay cowboy have that I _can't_ help them with?"

Adam visibly fights his way back to politeness, clears his throat and puts his hand on Kris's chest. "Sorry. Okay, I'm Adam. And this is Kris Allen. And Kris's place is haunted."

"Uh huh. Garden District or French Quarter?"

"Covington," Kris supplies.

"Hmm. That's a little off the beaten path but..." The guy pulls out a cell phone and starts typing, humming to himself while they wait. After a few seconds he starts writing something down, pushes a store flyer across the desk toward Kris. "Here you go. That's Jimmy's number. He runs ghost tours on the weekends. Let Jimmy look over the place, and if it's got good vibes maybe you can get on his route."

"No, I don't wanna...I need to kill it."

"Kill it. A _ghost_."

Kris makes a frustrated sound. "_Whatever_ it is. It's trying to kill me, and I can't live there 'til it's gone. Can voodoo get rid of it?"

The guy stares at him like he's stupid. "Voodoo doesn't really do _hauntings_. Let me guess; you watched _The Skeleton Key_, didn't you."

"_Weekend at Bernie's II_," Adam admits in Kris's ear.

Kris's jaw drops and he slaps a hand over his mouth to hold back an inappropriate guffaw. "You had better be joking," he hisses to Adam.

Adam just raises his eyebrows and shakes his head, his mouth twisted around a shit-eating grin.

The guy clears his throat, glaring.

Kris sucks it up and gets serious again. "Listen, I don't know anything about voodoo. All I know is there's something in my home that wants to kill me, and somebody's gotta have the answer. I'm sorry if we've offended you, but I'm just looking for help."

The guy scrutinizes him for a long minute and then sighs and looks around the shop. "Most of what I've got here are just charms for the living; good luck, fortune and wealth, uncrossings; you get where I'm going. Mass market stuff. But the really powerful voodoo..."

Adam nods, "That's what we want."

"...I should probably pass you off to Theresa. You might need, like, a cleansing ritual or something."

"That sounds great," Kris says eagerly, jumping on the suggestion.

"Okay. Um, you guys wait outside for a few minutes while I make some calls, cool? Be right out."

Kris grabs Adam's hand and tugs him quickly out of the shop. "I can't believe you," he starts as soon as they're on the sidewalk.

Adam just loops his arms around Kris's back and drags him in for a nuzzle. "I know. I'm incredible."

"_Weekend at Bernies_?! And you walked right in there and insulted the guy the second you met him! Jesus, I'm lucky he'll even speak to me now."

"Baby, you know you were thinking the same thing," Adam says soothingly.

"Yeah, but I'm not gonna blurt it out like that," Kris shakes his head.

"Relax. He loves us. He found our honesty refreshing."

Kris grits his teeth but doesn't pull away. He knows he's just unsettled because the voodoo guy didn't turn him down already; is bringing him another possible lead.

The door opens a minute later and the shop keeper comes out with another store flyer. "Okay, Mr. Allen. I got you an appointment with Theresa Mordeau. Her momma used to own this place; was one of the most powerful voodoo priestesses back in the day. Theresa knows her stuff, so if anyone can help you in this town, it's her. 10 a.m. tomorrow, her place. She's expecting you."

Kris snatches the piece of paper from him like a lifeline. "Thank you so much, Mr. ..."

"Michael Dee," he sticks out his hand and Kris shakes it gratefully. "Good luck with your ghost, Mr. Allen."

****   
  


They stop by the car in Simon's parking lot to fetch Adam's makeup case out of the backseat before they head inside. Kris's chest is buzzing with hope; it's an amazing feeling. He isn't really listening when Adam drops off the case in the empty dressing room and heads off down the hall. Kris just leans against a wall, enjoying the confusing optimism he's found in voodoo of all things. His life is so ridiculous.

"Hey, babe, you okay?" Adam asks, sticking his head back into the dressing room.

Kris focuses on his concerned face. "Yeah."

"Do you wanna come out front with me...." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, like he's repeating something Kris missed the first time.

"Sure." Kris shrugs an absent-minded apology and follows Adam out into the back hallway.

When they get to the door to the main room, Adam takes a moment to introduce Kris to the bear of a security guard, all bushy beard, thick muscles, and beer gut. Adam tells him it's okay for Kris to go backstage whenever he wants. Chuck just nods and goes back to scanning the bar patrons.

It's Sunday night and Simon's is getting busy; almost 9 p.m. and the tourists have been drinking for a while as the locals start to trickle in. Adam takes Kris to the waiters' corner of the bar and introduces him to bartenders Julie and Steve, arranges for Kris to have a free tab all night.

Steve sizes Kris up with a saucy leer and then winks at Adam. "The usual, I see," he shouts in Adam's ear.

Adam grins. "Play nice."

Butch little Julie shakes Kris's hand and pours the drinks. He wonders if she remembers him buying her a drink after last call a week ago. When she drags Steve away to whisper and point at Kris, he figures that answers that question.

Refusing to feel awkward, Kris turns to Adam and teases, "And you and Steve..."

"Are just friends. Swear."

Adam kisses Kris's forehead and pulls him out onto the empty dance floor, drink in one hand and an arm around Kris's waist, rocking them to Aerosmith's way-too-loud _Sweet Emotion_. Adam croons along and Kris closes his eyes, letting the hope well up again, filling up all his empty spaces.

"AAAAAADAAAAM," someone shrieks a few songs later.

Adam whirls around, grabbing a woman with huge platinum hair and stiletto heels and an Adam's apple and drag queen makeup. Kris recognizes the second performer of Simon's nightly trio. "Daisy Baby," Adam shrieks back, twirling the outrageously thin man. Adam's drink and ice spill on the floor.

"Where the hell were _you_ last night," Daisy demands when Adam sets him down. He throws up a hand. "No, don't tell me. Just tell me it was _fabulous_."

"It was something, alright," Adam says, still smiling like he _isn't _remembering the stay at Kris's condo.

"Oh who am I kidding? Dish! Dish! I want _all_ the gory details. Come on and help me get my corset on. Shouldn't you be getting ready by now? It's practically 9:30! You aren't playing it straight again, are you? Cause honey, three-piece-suits ain't what they're paying to see."

Daisy swirls his finger to indicate the small group of men who are now gyrating on the dance floor and notices Kris standing behind Adam, staring.

"Hey there, you're cute," he says, extending his fingers like a lady.

Kris shakes the limp hand and says, honestly, "You're amazing."

"Ooooo!" Daisy squeals in a piercing, nasal falsetto. "A fan! I love fans. What's your name, cutey-pie?"

"Kris."

"Krissy, Krissy, do you wanna come backstage with me?" Daisy is sidling forward, Adam all but forgotten.

Kris flicks his gaze to Adam, whose eyes are laughing in a straight face. "I would love to," he says, proffering an elbow. "I hear you're having corset troubles."

Daisy slithers up against his side in his short dress and hooks arms, sharp elbow jabbing Kris's ribs a little bit. "Such a charmer," he sighs. "Oh, Adam, you should come, too," he adds as an afterthought.

Adam is looking at Kris like he can't wait to see what happens next, and he tags along as Kris leads Daisy to the performers' door.

Daisy sashays into the dressing room, fluffing his hair and flipping the back of his dress up with a coy smile at Kris over his shoulder. Kris grins and shakes his head, takes another sip of his beer.

"So, Kris, you've seen my act before?"

"Lots of times. Your Mariah Carey number on Friday, though...that was mind blowing."

"Mmm, it's not _minds_ I'm trying to blow." Daisy unlocks the storage lockers and pulls out a red corset and ruffled black bloomers on a wooden hanger.

"Maybe you'll finally meet the man of your wet dreams tonight," Adam says, stepping around Kris to lean into the locker, pulling out leather pants and some kind of a yellow mesh top.

Kris takes a seat at the third performer's table and watches as Adam strips his shirt off and Daisy whips his sweater dress up and off.

Adam's all sleek and muscled, broad shoulders and long torso next to Daisy, whip-thin with a bra that Kris assumes is padded—although he can't tell when Daisy's back is turned—and complicated women's black lace panties, stockings, and garters. Daisy shoots a look over at Adam's costume choice as the tall man starts unbuttoning his jeans and says, "Honey, you're not gonna do the blue Cookie Monster again, are you?"

Adam snorts, "_No_. And _hey_, I like that one."

"Thank god. It's absolutely wretched. And I'll say it again; a fucking _Avatar_ rip-off."

"Adam looks good in blue," Kris protests.

Daisy whips around, corset clutched to his chest. "Not in _that_ look, sweetie. And hey, whose fan are you, anyway?"

"He's mine," Adam says, kicking off his jeans, bare-assed and unselfconscious.

Daisy glares imperiously at Adam's presumptuousness and then raises his eyebrows, looking closer at Kris. "Oh, you _didn't_! Adam, you dog, you found _another_ one!"

"Another one what?" Kris asks.

"Daisy," Adam whines.

"Another one of his _boys_. Let me see: Tiny? Check. Pretty? Check. Southern? Hmm..."

Kris smirks at Adam's embarrassment, pulls out his thickest drawl. "I'm from Arkansas. _Ma'am_," he adds for good measure.

"Double-check," Daisy crows, pointing a finger at Adam. "Just like Drake, and Tommy, and Brad.... I swear, honey, sometimes I think you moved here just for the men."

"Daisy, come on," Adam rolls his eyes, tries to act like he isn't flaming bright red.

"Well, just keep an eye on him. Cause he's _my_ type, too: a gentleman who knows how to flatter a girl. I'm liable to snatch him up when you're on stage."

"I don't think I have to worry about that," Adam says, meeting Kris's eyes and straightening his shoulders, his naked body turning into a great master's sculpture, something he could worship and study for centuries.

Kris gulps and tries not to swallow his tongue.

"Psht. You two. Just keep it in your pants back here. _Adam_, any time you wanted to put your pants _on_..."

Daisy pops a Backstreet Boys CD into a little stereo and the performers start warming up by singing along quietly, moving around each other in the small dressing room without getting in each others' way. Adam pulls on the pants with the loops of chain dangling over his thighs, adds a chain belt overtop, rubs glitter moisturizer over his arms, chest, face, and calls on Kris to cover his back. And then he pulls out two thick tubes with rollerball tops and starts drawing wide, diagonal stripes of yellow and green day-glow body paint around his torso, starting at his hips.

Kris immediately takes over, because _obviously_ this isn't a one-man job and Daisy doesn't look like the kind of girl to get his hands dirty; he's still agonizing over his own face, applying a fourth type of lip stick, this one just to the corners. Adam stands in the center of the dressing room with his arms outstretched and Kris walks around him, alternating the colors in two-inch thick bands.

The mesh vest goes gingerly overtop, and then Adam sits at the dressing table to apply the stripes to his face and neck.

"Krissy, be a dear and tighten these ties, will you," Daisy calls, and Kris gamely takes over threading the corset on Adam's friend. And in that moment he comes up against a whole bunch of cross-dressing, transgender, subconscious prejudices from his Arkansas-Baptist upbringing that he needs to get the fuck over, stat. Once Daisy's satisfied that his totally-real breast implants are well supported, Kris helps him pin the Christina Aguilera wig to his head to complete the Lady Marmalade ensemble.

Kris checks back in on Adam's progress just as Adam finishes adding a little silver shimmer over his cheekbones. When Adam looks up and smiles at him in the mirror, Kris is stunned. Adam has become someone entirely different _again_. It's surprisingly exciting to have that in a boyfriend—someone who can change himself at will.

Adam is looking up at him with those hot blue eyes, though, and Kris can't concentrate on that thought for very long.

"9:55," Daisy interrupts. "You ready yet?"

"Shit," Adam hisses, grabbing a bottle of hairspray. "Kris, c'mere. I need this _up_ okay? Just _spray_. Use the whole damn bottle if you have to."

Adam dips his fingers in a pot of gel and shoves them into his black hair, pulls it straight up. Kris starts spraying. Three minutes later, they've managed a black tangle that's four inches high, swooped back and spiky in places. It looks deranged, but it also looks intentional. Adam shakes his head back and forth, watching his reflection to make sure it doesn't move, and then laughs, "It'll do. C'mon."

At the performers' entrance, Adam pushes Kris up against the wall, his eyes burning into him. "Just so it's clear; you're mine," he whispers. And then he grabs Kris's chin and tilts his face up and kisses him, sloppy and wet and thorough.

Kris loses his breath, feels swept off his feet and fights the urge to touch Adam for fear of ruining the stripes. And then Adam is gone, pushing open the door, signaling to the DJ.

T. Rex's _Hot Love_ kicks in and Kris follows Adam out the door.

He watches the set from side stage, just a few feet from Chuck's stool. It's a thrill to be that close, to watch Adam prowling around the stage arching his back and licking the microphone like some kind of psychedelic punk tiger. He's never stood where Adam could see him before, he realizes when Adam finds him, catches his eye and sings, "I'm her two-penny prince and I give her hot love." He finds Kris a lot, actually. Every time Adam sings something dirty, he looks at Kris. Every time he sings something hot, he looks at Kris. Every time he sings something tender he looks at Kris.

It's like he's getting his own private performance. In front of a packed club. Some of the guys on the dance floor are noticing and shooting curious looks his way. Feeling awkward, Kris drifts away to the bar down the right side of the room.

Julie sees him and meets him with a fresh Miller Lite, sliding it across the counter with a huge grin on her face. "Love the look," she pinches his cheek and winks.

Kris cocks his head, confused, and then catches his reflection in the distressed mirror behind the bar.

He's _glowing_.

Or rather, his _mouth_ is glowing. Where Adam kissed him.

Adam's day-glow stripes are smeared all over his lips, unmistakable in origin. And Adam is up there aiming all his attention Kris's way, drawing everyone's attention to the glow he put there.

Adam's marked his territory. This is him flashing Kris around the club with a big "Hands Off" sign.

Kris thinks about wiping it off, but looking at the makeup on his face doesn't bother him like the lipgloss did. He takes his bottle and heads back to side stage, chin up and smiling.

****   
  


When Adam comes off stage, Kris precedes him through the performers' door, keeping a few feet ahead while Adam stalks him. They pass Daisy in the hall and Kris misses what the second performer says before he waves and heads out into the club. All Kris cares about is getting into that dressing room, getting Adam alone.

He opens the dressing room door and finds it occupied, though. The third performer, a statuesque guy done up like Jessica Rabbit, is leaning over his makeup table with a finger in his eye.

"Oh, sorry," Kris blurts just as Adam catches up to him.

"Frankie, what's happening!" Adam calls, his palms on Kris's shoulders pushing him into the room.

"Hold on, there's this fucking, erm, damn it!" Frankie blinks a lot, then lifts his eyelid again and pokes some more.

"Eyelash?"

"Yeah, fuck, I can't get it out. Is the bathroom empty?"

"Kris, go check if the bathroom's free," Adam asks softly, letting him go. "Turn around and let me see," he says to his coworker as Kris ducks back into the hall.

By the time he pushes his way back from the other side of the club, Adam has Frankie standing under the overhead light, helping to hold back his eyelid and reaching in to do some poking of his own.

"Stop being such a crybaby-"

"You haven't even washed your _hands_, and they're fucking _glowing_," Frankie squeaks, knees bent to give Adam a better view, but shying away from Adam's fingers.

"Uh, the bathroom's all full, and there's a line in the hall," Kris says helpfully.

"You don't want them seeing you like this," Adam says.

"Duh. Just.... My makeup's all fucked anyway. Get me a shot glass of bottled water from the bar and I'll rinse the fucker out. Ow-ow, it stings so bad."

"Well, stop moving your eye!"

"Oh my _god_ you are such a bitch-"

"On it," Kris volunteers, heading back out again.

When he comes back in with the glass and bottle of water, Adam has backed off and left Frankie to stand with watering eyes in the middle of the room. Mascara has run down his cheek and he looks completely miserable.

"When I cut my cornea on Friday it hurt way worse than an eyelash," Adam taunts.

"I hate you _so much_ right now. Just _see_ if I ever invite you over again."

Adam sees Kris and takes the bottle, smiling like he isn't taking the threat seriously. "Hey, we've got the water. You want me to wash it out?"

"Just fill the shot glass and gimme it."

Adam pours the water and presses the glass into Frankie's hand, making sure he has a good grip.

And then Frankie says, "This is gonna _suck_," and bends down, lines up the rim of the glass with his eye socket, and stands back up quickly, overturning the liquid onto his open eye.

"Shit, baby," Adam exclaims, grabbing up his own t-shirt from the back of a chair and pressing it around the glass to soak up the water leaking everywhere. "That was close."

"Oh _maaaan_," Frankie whines. "Did I mess up the wig?"

"Nah, you're good. How's the lash?"

Frankie tips forward gingerly, the glass only a quarter full, and blinks a lot. "Well now I've got makeup in my eye, but I think the lash is gone. Jesus that was stupid. Why'd you let me do that?" He grabs the wet cloth from Adam and scrubs at the right side of his face and then looks at the fabric in his hand. "Shit, this is your shirt, isn't it?"

"Don't worry about it; I'm doing laundry tomorrow."

"Sorry, man. Hey, who the hell are you?"

Bloodshot eyes narrow at Kris so he gives a little wave and smile. "I'm Kris. Adam's fan."

Frankie looks at Adam, then back at Kris's lips, and pushes his tongue against his cheek. "I can see that. Hi, I'm Frankie Duquesne, but you can call me gorgeous."

Kris smirks and ducks his head to get a better look at his glowing mouth in the dressing table mirror.

Adam takes back his shirt, drops it on a corner of the table and crowds up behind Kris, just inches away from rubbing against him. He nuzzles at Kris's cheek, spreading more green paint on his skin, watching Kris's reaction in the mirror. Kris keeps his eyes open, showing Adam exactly how much he likes the marks Adam's left on him.

"What's the crowd like tonight?" Frankie asks, sitting at the table next to them.

"Not terrible, but you know, it's Sunday."

"Yeah, I know. I'm borrowing your Visine. You brought it, right?"

Frankie reaches over to get at Adam's box on the table, but Adam nudges Kris out of the way and says, "Yeah, lemme get it." Adam sits in the second-hand office chair and starts rummaging through his box. Kris stands behind him and runs his fingers along Adam's hairline where he missed some spots with the day-glow paint. Adam hands over the eye drops and leans back into Kris's touch.

"Life saver," Frankie sings softly, his head tipped back for the drops. He shakes his head when he's done and rolls his shoulders, does a few scales. "Oh hey, what's this bullshit about calling out sick last night? I wasn't planning on longer sets."

"At least it was a Saturday?" Adam says by way of apology.

"Saturdays are good, but seriously, you're totally not blind so it better've been worth it. Has Simon yelled at you yet?"

"Haven't seen him. I don't think he's here tonight."

"You'd better call him tomorrow; he was totally pissed off last night."

"Yeah, yeah." Adam rolls his eyes at Kris in the mirror.

"m' serious, Adam. He thinks you're moonlighting again."

"So I need to call him and tell him I'm not cheating? Baby, you know you're the only floorshow for me..."

"Something like that," Frankie snickers.

Adam bares his teeth and rubs off a little makeup that's stuck to the enamel. "I get his lecture every damn month."

"We all do, honey. But some of us take it a little more seriously. I covered for you, just so you know. Told him I'd driven you to the 24-hour clinic myself."

"Thanks, babe. That feels _so_ good."

Frankie shoots them a curious glance and quirks his lips. "Are you talking to me, or _him_?"

"Hmm?" Adam's eyes are closed.

"What's up with your hair? Did something die on your head?"

"Ran outta time."

"Uh huh. It looks like you got in a fight with Daisy and she set fire to your favorite wig."

"Blow me."

"...thinking about it," Kris whispers in his ear and Adam gasps, arches his neck back a little further. Kris takes a careful grip of Adam's chin and tips his face up so he can kiss him, lick the paint on his lips. Adam gives a happy moan and opens his mouth for him.

"What d'you think of this nail color? Does it say 'whore' to you?"

"Gthurm," Adam mumbles around Kris's tongue.

"Cause the last thing I wanna look like is a kinda-slutty prom queen with a quarterback boyfriend. It needs to _scream_ 'whore.'"

Kris twists Adam's face to get a better angle and Adam helps, spinning the swivel-chair around so he can hook a hand behind his neck and pull Kris closer. Kris does him one better, sliding onto Adam's lap, straddling his leather-clad thighs. He holds Adam's hair so he doesn't fuck up the body stripes and bites Adam's lip, sucks on his tongue, still worked up from his strut, his voice, those possessive blue eyes finding him every few seconds.

Kris rocks their hips together, not close enough to get any real friction without rubbing against the vest and stripes, but Adam moans again and Kris grunts in frustration.

Frankie is still talking in the chair next to them. "I wasn't sure about it, but it was only $3 bucks, so what the hell, right? But it's maybe a little too hot pink for this dress. Look."

Adam tugs at Kris's hair, trying to get him closer, and Kris loses track of his hands, feels his thumb smear along Adam's jaw line as he holds Adam's head still. Shit. Well, Adam can fix it later. Which means he can also... Kris drops his hands to the curves of Adam's wide shoulders and squeezes, letting his fingers smear the greasy paint stripes.

"You know what? Forget it."

Kris pulls his head away to check on Adam's friend, but Frankie just smiles and shakes his head, starts singing some vocal scales. Adam leans in and kisses along Kris's neck, and Kris can't think of any reason why they should ever stop doing this.

A long time later the door opens and shuts, and then opens and shuts again, and a new voice says, "Adam, will you loosen this fucking thing?" Daisy drops into the chair on their other side and sighs heavily. "Come on, I can barely breathe."

Kris only half hears him, intent on running his teeth across Adam's collarbone where the vest cuts across. Adam is panting under him, grinding up against his ass, his hands up under the back of Kris's t-shirt.

"Adam? Adam. _Adam_. Douche, I'm fucking dying, here!"

"God, _fine_," Adam mutters, pulling his hands away.

Kris stifles his complaints and carefully stands up, swings his leg over Adam's knees to release him from his clutches.

Adam's makeup's a blurry mess, and Kris's hands are glowing. He smirks to himself while Adam goes about saving Daisy from the murderous corset.

Daisy grunts and whispers something as Adam jerks at the laces, crouched down behind his chair. Adam looks up and whispers something back and Daisy's eyes cut over to Kris in the mirror.

Kris's head is pounding with lust and the bass from the main room. His jeans are too tight and his skin is flushed. And he just totally molested Adam in front of two of Adam's friends. That's...a little awkward.

"Um, I'm gonna get some more drinks. You guys want?" he offers for an excuse to duck out.

Chuck has to open the performers' entrance door for him when he comes back juggling a shot of tequila, two vodka tonics, and a bottle of beer. He kicks the dressing room door a few times until Adam opens it and lets him in, taking one of the vodka tonics and the bottle out from the crook of his elbow.

Kris puts the shot and other drink on Daisy's table and Daisy finally smiles at him again and blows him a kiss. "Thank you, Sir. You truly are a gentleman." He bats his eyelashes.

Kris blushes a little and sits down in Frankie's chair. Adam passes him the bottle and watches him take a swig, then presses his thumb down on Kris's wet lower lip, rubbing a little, his eyes narrowed. Kris stares up at him and thinks about the day-glow on both of their mouths. Wonders if it's on the mouth of his bottle, too. And what else he could get it on.

"Babydoll, you are _not_ allowed to ignore me while I'm in here, okay?" Daisy warns, applying fresh lipstick.

Adam jerks his hand away with a guilty, apologetic shrug and lowers himself into his own chair, right next to Kris, close enough to touch, to kiss. Kris takes another big pull from his beer and tells himself to cool down.

That's easier said than done, though, because when Adam goes back on stage a painful half hour later, he's obviously smudged at wrist and shoulder, upper arm and neck. His hair looks more like someone gripped it with two fists than a frantically hair-sprayed construction.

Kris watches and wants and doesn't care that his own face and throat are covered in glowing paint. No, that's not true. He _likes_ it. When people look at him they see what Adam did to him, and when they look at Adam they see what Kris did. Adam hadn't even bothered to fix his face; it's still all wrecked from Kris's mouth and fingers. And that just makes Kris want him _more_.

He's all over Adam the second he's off the stage, fingers grabbing the front of his vest and dragging him to the performers' entrance, past Chuck and away from all those watching eyes. Adam pulls him in for a kiss against the wall of the hallway. Daisy slaps Kris's ass as he brushes by on his way to the stage. Kris watches Daisy pass through the door and then grabs Adam again and gets him to the dressing room.

...the surprisingly empty dressing room.

"Wait," he says as Adam steps into his space, the singer wrapping both arms around him heedless of the body paint. "Where's Frankie?"

"He likes to mix it up with the crowds, give the tourists their photo opportunities. Get some phone numbers..."

"How long do we have?" Kris asks, shifting a few steps to back Adam into a chair.

Adam sits heavily and his eyes are locked on Kris's. He licks his lips. "Lock the door."

Kris presses the button in the doorknob and kneels between Adam's legs, his mouth already watering. This is what he's wanted to do for...it feels like days, weeks. And when he shoves the chain loops out of the way and gets his hands on the zipper, his fingers leave day-glow trails on the leather around the fly. And oh yes, that's just _perfect_. Kris bites his lip evilly and eases back the folds of fabric, tugging Adam's cock out, already hard and red and impatient.

Adam grabs at his hair and Kris sees the molten look in his eyes before he lets Adam tug him in closer. He starts with a teasing lick around the head, then down the shaft, a little firmer against the vein as he nears the base. Adam groans and Kris lifts back up, more saliva ready, drenching the tip as he works his tongue around again, getting him shiny and slick. Adam smells like moisturizer and sweaty leather, and the dressing room smells like multiple brands of aftershave and deodorant and hairspray, but he _tastes_ amazing. Kris squeezes Adam's thighs in the black leather and takes him into his mouth; just the head at first, so he can really play with the nerve endings, making Adam buck his hips in desperation.

He sucks sharply, hollowing his cheeks for an instant before relaxing and working his tongue again.

"Holy crap," Adam whimpers, petting his cheek.

Kris grins and goes down as far as he can, taking Adam deep and sucking again, letting Adam dig his thumb in against his cheek, feel himself inside. There's saliva dripping down his chin, things are getting satisfactorily messy, and Adam is making ridiculous noises as his cock nudges the back of Kris's throat. Kris slips a hand down to his own fly but Adam bucks again, making Kris choke a little. He coughs, ignores Adam's high-pitched apologies, and presses more firmly with both hands to hold him in place.

"Jesus Christ, I'm gonna," Adam whines after just a few minutes.

Kris smiles and tongues the slit, sucks him hard again, humming a little in encouragement, and Adam shoots, filling his mouth with cum until Kris can't hold it all, till it runs out of his mouth and he catches it with his hands, swiping at his skin. When Adam's done he pulls off, grabs an empty glass off the other table and spits, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

And then he stands back to admire his handy work. Adam is red-faced where the paint has rubbed off, his upper lip and temple shining with sweat, his cock hanging out of his pants with a yellow-green glow that matches the rest of his skin. And his thighs are glowing, too—unmistakable hand prints where Kris squeezed. Kris catches his breath and beams at the results. He would sit down on Adam's lap again, but that would mess up those beautiful hand prints...

Adam slowly opens his eyes and catches him looking, arches against the back of the chair, tilting his head up and beckoning Kris closer. So he leans in and licks into Adam's mouth again, sharing the lingering taste of him. Adam kisses back with growing energy as he recovers, straightening up and hooking his hand in Kris's belt.

"Now what can I do for you?" he asks, nuzzling Kris's cheek.

"Oh, you'll think of something-"

The doorknob rattles, followed by a sharp knock. "Adam?"

"Oh shit," Adam giggles, letting go of Kris's belt and scrambling to tuck himself back in.

"Adam, I swear to god, I'm in the middle of an epic, Lucille Ball eyelash-disaster out here!"

Adam stands up and checks out his face in the mirror to make sure he looks alright. What he looks like is someone who just got blown in the dressing room. There's no hiding it.

"Open this fucking door!" Frankie shouts, loud enough to bring Chuck back there if he keeps it up.

"Don't shit your panties, sugar, just gimme a second." Adam turns and sticks his finger in Kris's face, presses it against Kris's nose. "_You_ are a total distraction."

Kris grins and snaps his teeth at Adam's finger. Adam pulls him in by the back of his neck and kisses him one last time before unlocking the door.

Frankie flounces in on his 4-inch heels, false eyelash dangling over his eye, hanging on by one corner, a hand cupped against his cheek to catch it if it falls. "This is the worst fucking night..." He stands at his table and then surveys them both, eyeing the glowing hands on Adam's thighs. Kris hides his hands behind his back, but Frankie tosses his head and snorts. "Backstage blowjob? For real?"

Adam leers at Kris.

"And you're the guy who rags on me for hooking up in bathrooms. What was that about cement floors not being _classy_ enough for you?"

"Well, there's carpet in here..." Adam protests, blotting the sweat on the back of his neck with a handful of tissues.

"And you swore you would never hook up at Simon's."

"I was young and naïve at the time."

"That was _six months ago_." Frankie arches an eyebrow and carefully applies fresh adhesive to the dangling end of the sparkly eyelashes. "And it looks like you've got some company ink staining your pants, too."

Adam looks down and spots the day-glow on his thighs and fly. "Shit, you-" He looks up at Kris, his face torn between admiration and horror. "These cost $180!"

"Hope it was worth it," Frankie sing-songs.

Kris hopes so, too. He stands very still and watches Adam's face as he sorts out his feelings on the ruined pants.

Petulance gives way to thoughtfulness, and finally an indecent smile. "Yeah, it was. In fact," Adam moves over to the full-length mirror on the back of the door and takes in his whole wrecked ensemble, "I think I like them better this way." He lowers his lashes and looks at Kris, his eyes glowing past the mascara and eyeliner.

Frankie leaves a few minutes later and Daisy sashays back into the dressing room, looking for help with the corset once again. Kris fetches another round of drinks for Adam &amp; Daisy, declining Julie's offer of another free beer; he's going to drive sober for a change. Adam is laughing when he gets back, saying, "You'll never get me in those 5-inch, sequined, strappy sandals. My toes are definitely not my best feature."

"Why don't we let _Kris_ decide that," Daisy suggests with a sly smile.

Kris grins and hands over the drinks, tries to get comfortable in Frankie's chair. God, he still really needs to get off; blowing Adam only made it worse.

"I'm going out to The Empire Waistland on Tuesday. D'you wanna come with?" Daisy asks Adam.

"Nah, thanks, though."

"Really? But you're, like, obsessed with that place."

"Yeah, but I just spent $500 there last week. Wait'll you see the boots I found!"

Daisy whistles and then cocks his head. "Wait, how'd you get out there? You didn't cab, did you? I'd have driven you."

"Kris took me."

"Kris..." Daisy turns to pay attention to Kris again and Kris looks up from his phone when he notices Daisy's long silence. "You've known him for a while, huh?"

"You could say that," Adam says.

"You never mentioned him before."

"Do _you_ mention all your boyfriends?"

Daisy tilts his head away coyly. "Well, I don't call them boyfriends, but.... Oh."

"That's what I'm saying." Adam leans in to kiss Daisy's stunned cheek but he pushes Adam away.

"Don't you go messing up this blush! This is Coco Chanel!" Adam grins and tickles Daisy on the strip of skin between corset and panties. "No! Stop! You're not going to turn me into another one of your day-glow conquests before my last set! Oh god, it's already on my hands!"

Daisy jumps up and grabs a well-worn, faded green towel off the shelf on the back wall and scrubs at his hands while Adam laughs, stretches his legs out, and reaches out to tug absently at Kris's short sleeve.

Kris has no idea what to say when Daisy starts grilling Adam about how long he's known Kris, where they met, etc. Adam doesn't mention Kris's condo, or the fact that Kris has essentially moved in with Adam, or already spent a whole week at his apartment. Instead, Adam masterfully redirects the topic to Kris's session work at the studio.

Daisy seems impressed, and Kris is willing to give more details so long as the conversation sticks to safe things like music. He'd really rather not mention the ghost that's trying to kill him, or tomorrow's appointment with a voodoo priestess. He'd really rather not have Adam's friends thinking he's a crazy psycho.


	4. Chapter 4

He's relieved when it's finally time for Adam's last set. Kris follows Adam out to the club and heads for the packed bathroom. Almost 10 minutes later he finally makes it back to the stage where Adam is covering the Stones with a sneer and a perfect Mick Jagger shimmy-and-swagger. And Kris starts getting hard all over again, and that is so not acceptable after spending the last two hours with blue balls. He hits up Julie for some more bottles of water and heads back to the dressing room.

"Oh, hey, sugar," Daisy smiles when Kris opens the door. "Come on in."

"I got you some water," Kris holds out one of the chilled bottles and sits in Adam's chair.

Daisy twists off the top, takes a long swallow, Adam's apple bobbing in his slender throat, and smacks his lips. "My hero. So you're not gonna watch his set?"

Kris grimaces. "It's like...watching a strip tease for hours and hours."

"No happy ending?" Daisy nods, sympathetic.

"Not yet."

"Well, I could give you a hand..."

Kris's eyes fly up to Daisy's purple contacts, he catches the predatory expression. The absence of a laugh. "_What?_"

"It's just as much a strip tease for _me_ when I'm up there, you know."

"I don't think-"

Daisy spins his chair to lean toward Kris, and Kris's gaze slips helplessly down to the very real cleavage displayed by the corset. Daisy rubs his hands up and down his own stockinged thighs, fiddles with the garter fastenings. "I just get all worked up. I'll pretty much go for anyone once I come down off that stage."

"Yeah, I'm not...I'm good, thanks. I'll just wait for Adam to finish."

Daisy leans back and puts a foot on Kris's lap, the stiletto heel pressed against his inner thigh. It's a good thing he'd dressed to the left. Kris drags his eyes away from Daisy's bloomers, the black satin bulging oddly where he'd taped himself back. "Suit yourself. But you did buy me those drinks, and I'd hate to seem ungracious."

"I didn't _buy_ anything tonight; all your drinks were free. I just...wanted to help out."

Daisy smiles again, less sultry, more friendly. "Like I said, a gentleman."

"I guess," Kris shifts in the chair, wishing there was a gracious way to get away from that dangerous shoe.

"So what's the deal with you and Adam?"

Kris fidgets. "He's my boyfriend." It comes out more like a question, because they aren't even dating, really. And Kris has never had a boyfriend before, has just had hookups, some lasting longer than others. He's in uncharted waters and every time he stops to think about it, he gets nervous.

"You fucked up his makeup," Daisy says, studying Kris. "Adam never lets _anyone_ fuck up his makeup." He sounds maybe...admiring?

Kris considers what Daisy's just said. Adam gave him unprecedented permission, access. He's gotten closer than Adam's friend has ever seen anyone before, and that's a compliment and a half. If Daisy actually likes Kris, maybe he'll help Kris get a better bead on where Adam's coming from. "And people have tried?" he prompts.

"'Course! Adam's the butch one in the act. There's dozens of guys he could get with every night, and some of them get a little pushy about it."

"Is that what Chuck's for?"

Daisy rolls his feathered eyes. "Adam doesn't need Chuck to take care of him."

Kris hesitates before asking something really personal but Daisy seems pretty relaxed and Adam won't be back for at least another 15 minutes. "Um. Adam doesn't really talk about himself. It's kind of hard to get to know him. Is it just me, or..."

"Krissy," Daisy laughs, "that boy's a performer. And all us performers use mystery to build suspense. It's just part of who we are."

"So you think he's.... he mentioned that he doesn't like to talk about his past. He's from California, that much I've figured out, but I don't even know how long he's been in New Orleans."

Daisy ignores the unspoken question. "If he doesn't like to talk about it, then maybe you shouldn't ask."

"No, I...I think I need to know. Is there some kind of trigger he's worried about? I mean, I'm not gonna run away or hate him or anything."

"I'm not your relationship counselor-"

"I know," Kris cuts him off rudely, his worries getting the better of him, "but if you could just tell me _something_ about him, it might be a big help-"

"I'm not your relationship counselor," Daisy repeats, snapping now, "I'm _Adam's_ friend. And I don't go talking about my friends behind their backs. So step off, _little man_, and stop trying to use me to worm yourself deeper into his life."

Daisy retracts his foot, crosses his impossibly slender legs, and turns his chair away, fluffs his wig some more.

Stunned, Kris sits in shamed silence, wishing he could redo the last few minutes. That was not the kind of impression he'd wanted to make on Adam's friend. Daisy had seemed to approve of him before he stuck his foot in his mouth.

And then Daisy turns on him again, face hard. "You're the reason he was out last night, aren't you?"

"What-"

"Simon was on a real tear about it. He was talking about firing him. Now, I've known Adam for a long time, and he's never been a flake about work. He _loves_ this place, okay? He needs it. But suddenly he meets you, and you're driving him to his favorite places and getting him to skip work, and he's acting all codependent around you all over the club. And that's got me tripping because _that's not Adam_, and no twink is _that good_. So what the fuck are you doing to him?"

"I don't want him to get fired," Kris blurts, guilty and confused.

"Of course not. Then you'd lose your free-drink pass."

"That's not-"

"Save it!" Daisy gives him that stupid talk-to-the-hand gesture and yanks open a makeup bag, apparently done with Kris.

Kris hesitates, wants to defend himself, to explain that he's not trying to hurt Adam or fuck up his career or anything, but what the hell could he say? He heads out to the main room and lets Julie give him a Diet Coke and puts his head on the bar and tries not to connect the rotten, guilty feeling in his gut with Adam's beautiful, silky voice coming through the sound system.

Adam swans off the stage long before Kris has gotten over the disaster of his last conversation, but Kris sucks it up and meets him at the performers' door. He avoids Daisy's eyes as they pass in the hall, and if Adam notices, he doesn't say anything about it. He probably didn't notice, though—too busy copping a feel on Kris's ass as they walked.

Adam strips off the vest in the dressing room and Kris helps towel him off, rubbing the grease paint from his skin. "Shower's gonna feel fucking _amazing_," Adam sighs happily.

Kris doesn't comment. He feels like he's being a jerk, but he's just not up for flirting.

"You okay?" Adam asks as he pulls on his jeans. "You wanna stay for another drink or something?"

He shakes his head. "I'm just wiped, I guess. And I've got that early appointment tomorrow..."

"Yeah, we'd better get to bed," Adam agrees, sliding his arms into his jacket, his chest bare. Kris picks up Adam's makeup case for something to do, and Adam guides him out the back exit whispering, "Although I don't think I'm gonna let you sleep just yet."

**   
  
**

Traffic is sluggish on the expressway at 9:20 the next morning, but they make it downtown by quarter 'til. The underground parking lot of Theresa Mordeau's building seems dim and a little creepy, as though her voodoo vibes reach all the way from the 3rd floor to the subbasement. Kris gulps, glad Adam's by his side as he presses the sooty button for the elevator next to the big G2 painted on the cement walls.

There's no music in the elevator, and the cramped metal box creaks and crawls like it's begging for repairs.

Perhaps sensing Kris's nervousness, Adam clears his throat and reads aloud from the voodoo shop flyer he's been poring over all morning. "Get this. With voodoo, you can give your enemy a headache just by turning a picture of him upside down."

Kris's mouth twitches. "Sure you can."

"And there are wizards that take werewolf-form and fly around at night, so you have to make sure all your windows are locked before you go to sleep or they'll come in and get you."

"Seriously? Werewolves?"

"_Flying_ werewolves," Adam corrects him, glancing up from the brochure as the elevator doors slide open.

"You'd better stop reading that—it'll give you nightmares." Kris steps into the hall and then stops in his tracks. Adam goes just as still next to him.

They're standing in a freshly-painted white corridor, spacious, opposite a large glass wall that looks in on a bustling, sun-filled, cream-colored office. The words "Delta Psychiatric Clinic" shine in big brass letters above the receptionist's desk.

"That son of a bitch," Adam hisses.

They stand and stare, Kris's hands tightening into fists as he spots the etched numbers on the doors confirming that the clinic is the same #302 Michael Dee had scribbled on the flyer. There are a handful of patients sitting in comfortable-looking chairs along the side walls, soothing watercolor paintings mounted above their heads, a receptionist in a suit sitting at the big oak desk. No one notices the two of them rooted in the outside corridor.  
_Fuck it_, Kris thinks, rage an ugly beat in the back of his tired head. He's too mad to be disappointed—too mad to turn away. He squares his shoulders and marches up to the glass double doors, pulls the right one open with a sharp jerk, and advances on the unsuspecting receptionist.

"I have an appointment with Theresa Mordeau," he says, polite only in that he isn't shouting and scaring the entire waiting room.

The pretty little receptionist looks up from under her perfectly domed bangs and smiles at him before checking her computer screen. "Good morning! Just a moment.... Mr. Allen?" Her eyes slide to the left and Kris knows Adam has followed him inside; he's breathing heavily at Kris's shoulder like he's having a hard time not shouting, too.

"That's me, Kris Allen," Kris tells her firmly.

"Great. I'll let Dr. Mordeau know you're here. Why don't you have a seat?" Her smile gives nothing away as she gestures toward a bank of chairs. She's already picking up her phone.

Kris spins on his heel and stomps to the far side of the room so he doesn't have to hear her warning the _doctor_ that her psychotic patient with the paranormal-delusions is here. He can't bring himself to sit, though. He ends up stationed in front of the blue plastic water-cooler, arms crossed over his chest and jaw clenched, shoulder to shoulder with Adam, neither of them speaking. Which is for the best, because if Adam suggested they leave, Kris might bite Adam's head off.

Less than a minute later the receptionist stands and calls to him, "Mr. Allen, right this way?"

She heads down the corridor off the waiting room, stopping and knocking on the third door on the right before opening it and sticking her head in. Then she steps out of their way, eyeing Adam again with a surprised wrinkle to her smile, leaving them to push the door the rest of the way open.

Kris walks in with a purpose, leaving enough room for Adam to enter and close the door behind them in the shallow office. His arms still crossed, fists still burrowed under his armpits, he stares down the middle-aged black woman sitting at the neat desk and snaps, "Doctor Mordeau."

"I am," she nods solemnly. "You're Mr. Allen?"

"Doctor of what?"

Her dark brown eyes don't leave his as she smiles slightly and tips her head toward the plaques on the wall next to the desk. "Cognitive behavioral therapy. Treating panic disorders, primarily."

"Panic disorders," Kris snarls, but his rage is inevitably dulling to nausea. He'd seriously been sent to see a shrink. Had he seemed _that _freaked out—or that _freaky_—last night? He glances at her wall and reads the med school certificates, licenses to practice. There's even a god damn leather couch behind him on his right. He hates his life. He _hates_ it.

"Would you like to sit down, Mr. Allen?"

"Where? On your _couch_?"

"No, how about in the chair in front of you. Your friend can sit on the couch, if he'd like." She finally acknowledges Adam, her eyebrows raised, waiting for the introduction.

"Adam Lambert," Adam mutters when Kris doesn't volunteer the information.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Lambert. You're welcome to stay as long as Mr. Allen needs you here."

She's subtly exerting her will, showing that she's the one in control of this appointment. Kris's hackles rise, but when she looks at him with disapproving eyes he automatically takes the two steps necessary to sit on the leather armchair in front of her desk. He looks over his shoulder and sees Adam taking an uneasy perch on the arm of the couch.

"Thank you," she says, as though they've made some kind of concession. Kris really doesn't like her. "Now. Would you like to tell me about what brings you here?" Her voice is thick with the native drawl, a rich Creole accent that compliments and contradicts the tight bun of her black hair, the freshly-pressed yellow blazer and cheerful, striped blouse.

"Why?"

"Because I'd like to know how I can help you."

"Help," Kris sneers. "How? By convincing me I'm crazy? That it's all in my head?"

"What's all in your head, Mr. Allen? And may I call you Kris?"

"The fact that my house is- Fine, whatever. My house is haunted with something that's trying to kill me."

"Thank you," she says again, like getting permission to use his first name was important. Kris twitches. She's fucking _good_ at getting under his skin. "Do you think about it a lot?"

"About...which part?"

"Any part of it. The killing part."

"Yeah, sure. Last few weeks I was thinking about it all the time."

"But not lately?"

Kris hesitates, catches his eyes trying to slip over to Adam, sitting just beyond his line of sight. He looks back to Dr. Mordeau's steady gaze. "I've had better things to think about lately."

She smiles encouragingly. "That's good; changes that break the cycle of worry are very good. I'm happy for you." Her smile includes Adam, and Kris is responsible for giving that away, but he's still indignant that she knows that much about him, about Adam.

"Whatever."

"Have you been having panic attacks, Kris?"

"Yes," Adam says when Kris hesitates again.

The doctor ignores Adam, waits for Kris to answer her himself.

"Maybe," he allows. "I don't know what officially-"

"They were definitely panic attacks," Adam says quietly.

When the hell did Adam switch sides? Kris's gratitude that Adam came with him evaporates.

"Were they triggered by anything specific? A sight, sound, smell? A memory? A person?"

"Thinking about that thing," Kris admits, takes a deep breath to stop the familiar quivering in his diaphragm.

"So, a memory?"

"I guess. Sometimes."

"Having a specific trigger for the attacks is a good thing, Kris; it makes them much more manageable."

Her calm, caring voice is soothing, reassuring. And insidious. It's drawing up feelings of vulnerability and uncertainty and those are _not_ what he came here for. "You know," he says, standing up brusquely, "I don't know why we're even talking about this. Michael Dee got me here with a bullshit story about you being some big time voodoo priestess who can fix my ghost problem. I don't like getting bullshitted, and I'm definitely not interested in getting psychoanalyzed. So if that's all, we're leaving, and you and that dickhead can go fuck yourselves."

"Michael wasn't bullshitting you, Kris," she says mildly.

"Ha." He turns to go, looking for Adam to join him.

"My mother was a respected voodoo priestess. And I know what she knew. But I don't think _that's_ the solution you need."

Adam's eyes widen as he and Kris process what she just said. Kris turns back around and looks her over, looks at the plaques on the walls. "You seriously know voodoo?"

"Of course. But I don't think _you_ do."

"Obviously, or I wouldn't be here."

Dr. Mordeau flutters her eyelids as though trying to avoid rolling her eyes at a patient. She eases back in her chair before asking, "Tell me, Kris, do you _believe_ in voodoo?"

"No," he says honestly.

She shakes her head. "Voodoo only has power if you believe in it. _You_. It can't help you if your mind is closed."

"I'll believe in anything if you tell me it can get rid of this thing."

"That's not how this works," she argues.

"I don't _care_ how it works," Kris interrupts. "This thing's been driving me crazy for weeks and I just need somebody to get rid of it, any way, any how."

"Tell me what you _do_ believe in. Heaven, Hell, God? Saints? Ghosts?"

"God...I think. I mean I used to." It's been a while since he's prayed. Longer since the pastor asked—told—him not to come back.

"And the rest?"

He shrugs.

"Kris," she tries again, "I'll be honest with you; it seems highly unlikely to me that someone who does not believe in voodoo, or God, or _ghosts_, would find themselves in your position. That simply isn't how the spirit world works. Spirits are all around you, everywhere you go, yes, but if you're blind to them, they can't affect you. So you have to understand why it is far more likely that your _mind_ has created conditions that are putting you in this perpetual state of fear-"

"What I understand is you're refusing to help because...I'm not the spirits' _type_? I'm not enlightened enough for them?"

"I'm saying I think I can offer you a different, more appropriate kind of help, if you're willing to work with me."

"Lady," Adam growls, standing up behind Kris, coming a step closer, "you're dead wrong. I thought Kris was crazy, too, but I spent Saturday night in that place, and I watched something freeze him in place, knock lamps over, and throw a _hammer_ at my _head_. So unless the Invisible Man did all that shit, you'd better believe that Kris's ghost is real, and _really_ pissed off."

Kris could kiss his boyfriend. He definitely will, later.

The doctor's eyebrows shoot up, fingers steepled under her nose as she considers the two of them. "Alright," she says. "I'm not denying that the possibility exists."

"But?" Adam prods, belligerent.

"Again, it is _highly_ unlikely." She sighs and closes the blank notebook in front of her. "If you'll have a seat.... I'm willing to hear you out."

Kris and Adam cautiously return to their previous positions.

"Start at the beginning and tell me everything that's happened."

Over the next half hour, Kris recounts his move to Covington, the slow start to the manifestations, and the sudden escalation in frequency and violence. And above all, the things it's communicated to him; the anger and threat it poses; what it wants to do to him.

Dr. Mordeau only attempts to hijack the conversation twice, focusing in on the recent, stressful upheavals in Kris's life, like his divorce and crisis of sexual identity. Adam quickly and firmly puts her back on topic each time, and Kris is damn glad Adam's got his back. His own testimony clearly wouldn't have been enough.

When it's almost 11 a.m. she finally looks at the clock, looks at them, and says, "Alright. I can't commit to anything, but it might help if I took a look myself. Depending what I feel at your home, there _may_ be some spiritual remedies I can help you with."

"Great," Kris pounces on the offer. "How soon can you come?"

"Noon is best. I have an afternoon appointment I'll have to bump, but I can fit in a trip to Covington today."

"Today?" he echoes.

"Yes. I was under the impression you needed this handled quickly?"

"Yes, yes, absolutely. Noon is great. Uh...here's my address," he leans over her desk and scribbles directions and his number on a sticky note, shocked and thrilled that the appointment has turned out so well. "We'll meet you out there?"

"Just before noon," she confirms. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to make that phone call..."

Adam opens the door and Kris follows him down the hall. He beams at the receptionist and at the new batch of patients in the waiting room, unable to contain the goodwill he feels toward all humans. He's got a voodoo priestess coming to check out his condo and tell him how to kill his ghost. He feels like the luckiest man in the world.

**   
  
**

At 11:45, Kris &amp; Adam sit in his car in the Covington Marshes parking lot finishing their Chick-fil-A waffle fries with a honey mustard sauce that Adam keeps licking off his fingers. Kris backed the car into his parking spot so he wouldn't have to look at the building he hates so much. This gives them a clear view of the road into his cul-de-sac, and they exchange a glance and a nod when Dr. Mordeau's black BMW pulls into a visitor's spot next to the tennis court.

Adam stuffs their lunch trash in the takeout bags, brings the garbage with him when they get out of the car and head over to meet her.

Dr. Mordeau stands on the asphalt looking around her, studying the buildings and the tennis courts, the trees, the birds, the cars in the lot. Her smile is only surface-deep when she greets them and Kris worries that she's changing her mind already.

"Did you have any trouble finding it?"

"I used my GPS, it was fine," she says shortly, checking her watch. "Which is good; we want to be in there at exactly noon."

"Why?" Adam asks, tossing the bags under-hand into the trash can on the sidewalk.

"Noon is a powerful time for the spirits."

"But it's never done anything during the day," Kris protests.

"That doesn't mean it can't be felt. Noon is a special time. At noon, you don't cast a shadow; that means your soul is absent. When that happens, the spirits can take over your body—possess you, if they're so inclined."

Adam scoffs, "You don't actually believe that, do you?"

She levels a cold glare his way. "Mr. Lambert, I'm here to help. Questioning my beliefs prevents me from helping."

He puts his hands up in a low, apologetic gesture. "Okay. I just meant...um, you don't actually think that's gonna happen _here_."

She exhales through her nose impatiently. "No matter what you say you've seen, I have strong doubts there is actually any kind of threat here. Is it possible? _If_ there's an aggressive spirit in there, something more dramatic could happen, yes. But do I actually believe it _will_? No, or I wouldn't be taking Kris in there."

Kris looks up at the windows of his second floor condo and thinks about what she said. When was the last time he was in there at noon? More than two weeks, now. It's gotten stronger, more determined since then. Could it be strong enough to take him over? He remembers its fury, the prickling of his skin, the tightness in his chest, the adrenaline rushing through his veins, and he can't go back in there, not at noon, god not _ever_.

"Kris?" Adam says, stepping closer.

"I can't go in there," he says, gasps. His pulse is pounding in his ears. He's just going to sit down right here on the curb and wait while they go handle his problems, because if he goes in there it'll find him, turn on him.

A bony grip pulls him onto the sidewalk, pushes him down onto the bench in front of the tennis courts. "Kris- Mr. Allen, can you hear me?" the doctor says clear and loud next to him.

He nods, hunched over his knees, trying to catch his breath. The sun is warm on his shoulders and he's shaking with chill.

"Nothing is hurting you right now. Nothing is hurting you. It's just a memory. And you can control your memories. I want you to tell yourself to stop thinking about it."

Adam is sitting on his other side, rubbing his back with a big hand. Kris's skin and muscles are so tense the contact feels sharp, painful.

"You're going to say the word 'Stop' out loud now. Forcefully. Shout it, if you need to. And when you say it, you're going to stop thinking about that memory and you're going to think of something positive."

"Babe," Adam whispers in his ear, "you played me the _Lovers Waltz_ last week. How does it go—I can't remember."

"Tell yourself to stop, Kris. Say 'Stop.'"

"Think about the melody, Kris."

His gut aches and he's getting lightheaded from hyperventilating. It's all in his head, he knows that; he's outside, he's nowhere near it, but it's _right there_ across the street, and he just knows it's waiting for him, waiting to kill him.

Dr. Mordeau's voice is intense. She sounds so certain when she says, "Tell yourself to stop. Control your thoughts, Kris, break the cycle. Order yourself to _stop_."

He wants to stop thinking about it—he wants to stop so badly. "Stop," he says weakly, his teeth clenched.

"Say it again, Kris, and think of something else."

"Stop," he says again, but he thinks about the absolute helplessness he felt when Adam was in the room with it last time, when Kris couldn't do a thing to protect him, when it was saying Adam was dead, that it had killed him and Kris would be next.

"Give me the melody," Adam pleads.

It's a beautiful melody, one he knows by heart. Kris takes a deep breath for strength and says, loud, "_Stop_," and it's almost enough, but he can feel his thoughts backsliding. He purses his lips and hums the opening bars, his hands shaking on his knees. He loses the thread and starts over, pictures the finger positioning and consciously relaxes the right side of his chest to feel the bowing pattern, the flex of muscles as he extends his arm in memory.

"He plays the viola," Adam explains quietly, pulling Kris's left wrist off of his knee and turning his hand upside down, in position.

Kris twitches his fingers along with the notes, opens his eyes and sees the neck in his hand, the strings vibrating. His fingers are stiff and shaking a little, which will ruin the sound, so he consciously relaxes those, too, smoothing out the notes.

"That's good, that's excellent, Kris," she says after he's hummed all the way through the first chorus, her voice warm and cheering like sunlight, like the yellow of her blazer next to him. "You're not afraid right now, are you?"

He doesn't want to stop playing, but a niggle of thought points out that what he's doing must look stupid. So he sits up straighter and shakes his head. "No." And relief flows in, overriding the blooming embarrassment. A voodoo psychiatrist just short-circuited his panic attack; she's possibly the most competent, incredible woman he's ever known. Why the hell was he so opposed to having his head shrunk?

Adam squeezes his shoulders in a hug and the doctor is beaming at him. "So your trigger is that specific memory. I want you to keep using that technique any time you feel the panic cycle starting. Just tell yourself to _stop_ and think about something else."

"That was amazing," Adam says.

"Thanks, Dr. Mordeau." Kris manages a smile for her.

She smiles back, looking proud. "_You're_ in control of your own thoughts; believe that and be strong. Now, this was just a start. You haven't stopped being afraid of that memory, but you can make your mind steer clear of it. Diffusing the power of the memory is the real challenge. And when you're ready to tackle that, I'll be there to help you."

Kris is grateful enough to actually be considering that offer when Adam says pointedly, "Before we start negotiating your appointment fees, how about we work on killing the ghost so he never has to think about the damned thing again?"

The doctor's smile melts into a sour frown directed at Adam. She checks her watch and sniffs, "Alright. It's 11:55. Do you feel ready to go inside?" Kris tenses up at the suggestion, but Adam takes his hand, and she says calmly, "You can handle it. Just tell yourself to stop if that memory comes back. Say it out loud."

Kris shoves the memory and the nervousness away. What's he afraid of? He has Adam and voodoo on his side. And it's just a condo. If he can concentrate on those things, maybe he _can_ get through this. He nods, and they start across the street.

When Adam offers to take his keys, Kris declines, steps forward to undo the deadbolt and the door lock himself. He pushes open the door, humming that sweet melody under his breath, and stands back in an inadvertently gallant gesture, letting Dr. Mordeau go first. She smiles and thanks him and steps inside, her gaze alert, looking all around her as she moves.

Adam puts his hand on Kris's shoulder, waits for Kris to cross the threshold next. Kris hesitates. And then the door behind them opens and they both turn and stare at his neighbor, standing in her doorway in a hot pink track suit. Glaring suspiciously.

"Uh, good morning, Mrs. Mitchell," is as far as Kris gets before Adam shoves him into the condo and hurriedly closes the door behind them. "Dude," Kris hisses, "that's hella rude."

"Hey, you have your triggers, I have mine. Dr. Mordeau?" Adam calls. "Can I ask your opinion on witches?"

Kris elbows him in the gut and then realizes he's standing in his condo. He gets goose bumps and his stomach drops out a little, but he's just standing there and nothing's happening. He clears some space in his head where he can fit the word 'stop' if he needs to and takes a deep, slow breath. Everything looks pretty good, pretty much exactly how they'd left it Sunday morning. And Adam'd done a good job cleaning up the place so he doesn't have to be embarrassed about inviting the doctor into a mess.

There's a smell, though, like something rotting. "Is that..." he heads into the kitchen, lifts the lid on the garbage can. "Ew, God!"

"Oh, nasty. You're taking that out today. Hey, you should probably empty your fridge while we're here."

Adam grabs more garbage bags from his storage closet while the doctor continues her tour, muttering to herself, eyes closed half the time. She hasn't spoken to them since she came in, and they talk in quiet voices while they go through the fridge, trying not to disturb her.

After about 10 minutes she joins them in the kitchen. "I'm done in here," she informs them.

"What do you think it is? Could you feel it?" Kris asks anxiously. He hasn't felt anything from it today, but maybe she's more attuned somehow.

"Walk me to my car," she says and heads for the door, big purse tucked under her arm.

Kris and Adam look at each other but pick up the garbage bags and follow her out. Kris makes sure to lock both locks behind them this time. Mrs. Mitchell's door doesn't open again.

They catch up to the doctor in the parking lot. The psychiatrist slows down and waits for them with a solemn expression. "Kris, I have to tell you, I didn't feel anything in there."

He isn't surprised, but he doesn't know what she's made of it.

"I know that isn't what you wanted to hear."

"I was here Wednesday night and it didn't do anything," Adam tries to argue.

She nods but doesn't otherwise acknowledge him. "I'm not completely closed off to the idea that something's in there, but if there is, it isn't a ghost in the traditional sense."

"So what is it?" he presses.

"If I had to guess, it's possible your home has attracted the attention of a loa."

"Loa?" Adam repeats.

"What can you do?" Kris asks, because the last thing he wants to hear after getting this far is 'nothing.'

She looks at her watch and says, "There are some rituals you can do to send the spirit away. I can give you the list of supplies you'll need, talk you through them-"

"Wait, _we_.... _We_ don't know voodoo, we can't....

"They're straightforward. I'll give you the prayers to read, the ingredients to mix. You just put some faith in the process, and the rituals will work fine."

They talk over each other frantically: "This is bullshit-" "Shouldn't you do it; I mean, _you're_ the priestess-" "You're gonna just leave us with that-" "I'm not going back in there on my own-"

"Gentlemen," she cuts them off sharply. "You're perfectly capable of conducting these rituals on your own. As the expert here, you should believe me."

"I _really_ don't think we can do it," Adam disagrees.

"Yeah, I mean, I never would have gotten across that parking lot without you. There's no way I can be in there conducting rituals on my own." Kris hopes his expression is as desperate and pleading as he feels. "Please, ma'am, _Doctor_, don't leave me like this."

She presses her lips together, clearly not pleased. "Mr. Allen-"

"What do you want? Payment?" Adam tries. "Kris to agree to therapy?"

"Mr. Lambert," she cuts him off, "I have a life. I have a job, I have appointments with patients who need me. I can't spend my nights out here conducting your rituals for you."

Adam persists, "Oh come on, that's- It wouldn't take much time, would it? Look at us, we're desperate. We're begging you."

Kris begs with his eyes and his heart.

She purses her lips again, tosses her head, and sighs, "I'll _think_ about it."

"Thank you," Kris gasps, reaching to shake her hand.

She takes a step back. "But right now I'm late for my lunch appointment. I'll let you know later what I decide." She gives them a parting glare that screams 'disappointment' and ducks into her car, leaving Kris and Adam standing in the parking lot with Kris's Hefty bags, watching her drive away.

**   
  
**

Kris's phone rings at quarter to 3 that afternoon, and at first he assumes it's his mom, belatedly remembering the Sunday call he'd missed. Again. But he doesn't recognize the number. He sets his guitar aside and flips open the phone. "Hello?"

"Kris, this is Theresa Mordeau."

"Oh, hi! _Doctor_," he adds for Adam's benefit as his boyfriend pushes his way into the bathroom, sweaty from the apartment building's fitness center. Adam pauses and lurks in the doorway to listen.

"I'm calling to let you know that I've reconsidered; I'm willing to conduct the rituals for you."

"You are? Seriously?!"

"But there's a condition."

"Uh." As far as Kris is concerned, everything was already going to be on her terms. "Sure, whatever."

"A friend of mine, Dr. Joseph Kielce, is working on a book on voodoo artifacts. I mentioned your situation and he thinks it would be valuable research for him to attend some rituals. Now before you say anything, I'm only doing this because _he's_ asking; if you don't want him there, I won't be there either."

"No, no, that's fine. I don't care who you bring."

Adam tiptoes out of the bathroom and sits down on the couch next to him, watching Kris's face for hints of how the conversation is going. "Well?" he whispers.

"She wants to bring a friend, but she'll do it."

Adam dismisses the condition with a hand wave. "Awesome, right?"

"Right," Kris agrees. "Dr. Mordeau, that's totally fine with us."

"Really?" She sounds surprised. "Okay, good. We can start tomorrow evening."

"Yeah, Tuesday's great! What time?"

Adam's nodding. "This is fucking awesome," he sings in Kris's ear. "We're gonna kill this fucking thing _tomorrow_..."

Kris misses the next thing Dr. Mordeau says, distracted by the realization that... "Adam, you're not coming."

"What?"

"You're not coming tomorrow."

"Wait, is that bitch saying I'm not allowed to-"

"You have to _work_," he reminds him.

Adam blinks and frowns. "I'll call out."

Which is _exactly_ what Kris doesn't want. He turns his head back to the phone. "Dr. Mordeau, can you hold on for a minute?"

"If you're concerned-" she starts saying, and Kris pulls the phone away from his ear, covering the receiver with one hand.

"You're not allowed to miss work for this," he tells Adam firmly.

Adam recoils a bit. "Fuck work-"

"No," Kris interrupts. "No, babe. Daisy said you're 'this close' to getting fired from Simon's cause you called out on Saturday."

"Daisy needs to stay the hell out of my business," he mutters.

"But was he right?"

"_Everyone's_ 'this close' to getting fired at Simon's," Adam rolls his eyes. "And besides, tomorrow night's the Wyndham."

"Even worse—you love the money there. Why are you gonna skip that?"

Adam throws his hands up, looks at the wall instead of at Kris, says with a lot of energy, "Cause I wanna be there for you. You're dealing with this massive thing and I wanna make sure you're okay."

And that's beyond sweet; that's pure Adam right there. He looks frustrated that Kris would try to shut him out, take back any of the personal space Kris has given up around him. And Kris doesn't even want to, not really, but he knows he doesn't have any other choice. "I _want_ you to be there," Kris admits. "But you're not gonna fuck up your life for my ghost problems. I'm not gonna let that happen."

"It's my life," Adam argues.

"And it's _my condo_, and you can't come if I don't let you."

"What, am I a vampire now?"

"I mean it, Adam. You're not missing any more gigs for me."

Adam puts his hands on Kris's shoulders like he wants to shake him, grits his teeth against something angry, but suddenly drops his head and shakes it. He laughs a little, which makes Kris feel better even before he says, "Oh my god, how fucking _Twilight_ is this?"

Kris doesn't follow.

Adam looks up with an embarrassed grin and says, "We can sit here all day arguing about who loves who more, and who's gonna sacrifice what for who...or we can just hold the fucking séance on _Wednesday_."

Kris stares at him and then feels a relieved giggle start at the bottom of his lungs and work its way out. "Oh my god. You're a genius."

Adam leans in and gives him a peck on the lips. "I know, right? So ask her if it's cool."

Kris holds the phone up again. "Dr. Mordeau, we can't do it tomorrow. Are you free on Wednesday? You and your friend, I mean."

She sighs in his ear, but doesn't sound upset when she answers, "Wednesday is fine. 8 p.m.?"

"8 o'clock," Kris agrees. "See you then." He snaps the phone shut and looks at Adam with narrowed eyes. "I can't believe _you're_ gonna be the voice of reason in this relationship."

Adam grabs him, drags him up against his sweat-stained t-shirt, clutching Kris's head to his chest in a big hug. "Baby," Adam croons, petting his hair and rocking them side to side, "let's never fight again."

Kris shoves against his ribs a little before hugging him back, still laughing.

**   
  
**

Simon's is half empty on Monday night. It's mostly tourists, Adam points out as they order drinks at the bar. The vacationers are the only ones crazy enough to party on a weeknight in September. Even still, the bar is doing a good bit of business.

Daisy doesn't look happy to see Kris, but fakes it as long as Adam is in the room. Kris can read the vibes, knows they're gonna be having it out once Adam's on stage, and he's actually looking forward to it. He knows where he stands with Adam, and he needs to make Adam's friend understand that he isn't a threat to Adam's job.

Kris watches the first half of his boyfriend's set from side-stage before heading back to the dressing room to chat with Adam's friend.

"Krissy, you're still here," Daisy greets him in a grating falsetto when he slips in the door.

Kris shoots a look at Frankie, who's just suiting up, fastening a complicated bra with shaped foam inserts. "Hi Frankie, Daisy."

"Little Kris!" Frankie exclaims, winking at him. "Back for more?"

"Like I never left," Kris agrees.

Daisy compares a close-up photo of his own face with his reflection and lifts the eyebrow pencil for a few sharp strokes. "And how long are you staying?"

"I don't know. Maybe a real long time," Kris wonders if their entire argument is gonna be done in code for Frankie's benefit. He thinks he recognizes the dance beat Adam's got going outside. Lady Gaga?

"Aww, that's so cute," Daisy says, thick with sarcasm. "That's just the kind of indecision we all love to have around."

Apparently, it is. "Daisy," Kris starts, leaning on the back of Adam's swivel chair in between the two drag queens, "I know you're Adam's friend, and I know you don't know me-"

"Oh no, Daisy, you _didn't_," Frankie cuts in, pointing a red nail at the other star. "Kris, has this little Chihuahua been trying to scare you off its territory?"

Kris gapes a little at Frankie, but takes in Daisy's affronted and—yes—embarrassed face.

"Stay out of this, Frankie," Daisy mutters, throwing down the brow pencil and rubbing blush across his cheeks with furious swipes.

"Oh, you so did!" Frankie grins and shakes his head. "Krissy, on behalf of everyone at Simon's, let me apologize for Daisy's behavior. She has a habit of getting a tad overly possessive—" Frankie shoots Daisy a pitying look, "of everyone. Bitch has cock-blocked me more times than I can count."

"I do not," Daisy hisses.

"Oh honey, you know you do. You've gotta start checking your abandonment issues at the door. If I wanna hookup, I'm gonna hookup. If Steve wants to get in Joe's pants, it's gonna happen. And if Adam wants to get himself a boyfriend, he's allowed. I promise: it doesn't mean he loves you any less."

"Fuck you," Daisy mutters.

"Grow up," Frankie shoots back, shifting the bra around a bit and posing in the mirror.

"Just cause you don't give a crap about your friends getting hurt-"

"Sugar pie, I think you need a hug. Kris, hug the bitch."

That sounds like a bad idea. Daisy glares at him and Kris amends that to _very_ bad. "Uh, no thanks."

"You don't know the shit Adam's been through," Daisy spits at Frankie. "The last thing he needs is some asshole stringing him along for the fun of it."

Kris's ears perk up.

Frankie laughs and shakes his head, reaches for a white dress with a poofy skirt sprinkled with oversized pink and red polka dots. "He doesn't need to tell me—I'm not stupid. It's obvious he's damaged goods. But Kris," and huge, smoky eyes with white highlighter under the brows turn on him, "doesn't seem like the malicious type."

Kris shakes his head, denying the charge. But damaged goods, what the fuck?

"And he's _not_ gonna go leading Adam on for the fun of it. Cause if he did, he'd have to answer to _me_."

"Right," Kris says faintly.

"So _you_, my darling, are going to have to back off and let Adam make some decisions for himself." Frankie shimmies into the dress, brushes past Kris on stockinged toes, and bends to kiss Daisy's forehead. Frankie's hand is tender where he brushes the bangs aside, and Kris looks down at the tubes of lipstick on Adam's table, trying not to be angry at Daisy, at Frankie, and at Adam.


	5. Chapter 5

A cell phone wakes Kris up at 11 the next morning and he's so tired he almost ignores it. But it's the studio's ring tone, _Money_ by The Ojays, so he rolls away from Adam's warm body and fumbles it open before the chorus ends.

An hour later, Adam finally emerges from the bedroom, joining Kris at the table. Kris ruffles Adam's sleep-flattened hair and stands up to pour Adam some coffee before he even asks.

"You're up early," Adam yawns.

Now that Adam's up, Kris can let himself whistle aloud, and he starts in on _Bluebird On My Shoulder_.

"Yeah, no, that's way too much happy before noon."

"I got a phone call," Kris explains, setting the pot back in the machine. "From the studio."

"You working today?"

"Nope, but they booked me for the next _three _days." He sets the mug down in front of Adam and collapses in his own chair—the one he's made his own.

"Nice," Adam says appreciatively. It's possible he means the coffee he's slurping, but Kris doesn't care.

"Apparently they broke one of their cardinal rules and let the talent tune his own guitar last week. And of course he fucked it up, because he did it by ear. So now the whole album-worth of tracks has a sharp D-string and the producers can't isolate it to pitch correct, so they need to rerecord all the guitar tracks."

"Sucks," Adam grunts between sips. "So you go in tomorrow?"

"Through Friday."

"Go you, dude." Adam is gradually showing more energy. He actually looks up and smiles at Kris.

Kris grins back, muses, "I know. It's exactly what I need." Work to take his mind off his problems. A $600 paycheck. Something to look forward to beyond tomorrow night.

"Their loss is your gain. Capitalism at its finest." Adam raises his mug in toast to the American way of life.

****   
  


The lyrics he's working on keep coming out wrong, aren't what Kris knows they should be. There's all this angst and uncertainty that doesn't go with the melody he started last week, and he's not sure why the good words aren't coming out. He's stuck with emo, or forced-happy, stupid, poppy crap.

Adam comes back from the gym and Kris is pleased to see him in a good mood. For all the bitching he does about cardio, Adam's actually pretty religious about working out four times a week. Kris has been letting his own workouts slide since he moved out of his condo, and he hasn't asked Adam yet what the guest-policy is at the fitness center. There's maybe a thought in the back of his head that he'll be able to move back in—that his arrangement with Adam is temporary. At least the living-together part. Because he might need some space at some point; a place to get a little distance. And if tomorrow night works, it should be safe to move back home.

That's what he wants, isn't it?

Kris closes his eyes, listening to the sound of Adam's shower for a few minutes. When the water cuts off, he decides he isn't making any progress on the lyrics. He pushes the notebook aside and picks up his guitar, strums through the chord progressions. There's a minor chord in there, but it's on beat 4, just a transition, not a mood-definer. So what the hell is up with his angsty lyrics today?

Adam joins him on the couch some time later, while he's humming and scribbling down a harmony line for the chorus.

"You're writing."

"Yeah," Kris sighs, fighting back the urge to rant about his writer's block.

"Can I hear it?"

"It's not good yet," Kris apologizes, shaking his head.

"Well, how 'bout something older? I haven't heard any of your stuff yet." Adam's leaning back against the arm of the sofa, smiling.

Kris says, "Sure," and readies his grip on the guitar, but he hesitates. What should he play? What would Adam want to hear? ...what does _Kris_ want Adam to hear, to know about him? And the inverse of that question catches him up short. He lays the guitar down flat across his lap, rests his hands over the belly. "You know what? I'm not ready."

"What- Okay. You don't have to-"

Kris manages to stop Adam with a look. "It's really personal."

Adam nods solemnly. "I get that."

"I don't think you do."

"Huh? I'm not trying to pry or anything."

"_I am_."

Adam squints at him, failing to read Kris's mind.

"I'll make you a deal," Kris says persuasively. "I'll play everything I've ever written, _if_..."

"If?" Adam's eyes start to crinkle up, like he thinks there's something kinky and exciting at the other end of that sentence.

"If you finally talk to me. Tell me about yourself."

Adam's smile switches off and he looks uncomfortable. "Oh man."

"It's personal, Adam. It's only fair. Talk to me."

Adam sits up, plays with one of the beaded hemp bracelets on his wrist, mutters something that sounds like, "So embarrassing."

Kris sets the guitar down on the floor and thinks about reaching out, holding him. "I wanna hear it, Adam, even if you don't like it. I like _you_, so whatever you went through, I- it's important to me."

Adam rolls his eyes, resistant. "It's nothing. It's really stupid. Honest."

"Babe," Kris insists. "Come on."

Adam laughs, tense and anxious. "You're totally gonna hate me."

"No I won't."

"No, really, you will. Cause you think I've got this, like, big dramatic past going on, don't you?"

Frankie'd called him 'damaged goods.' And Kris hates the idea that Frankie could be right, and that Adam is gonna keep hiding it from Kris. Hiding himself. "Just tell me."

Adam launches off the couch and paces to the window. "Okay, here's the honest-to-god truth: I have no drama." He turns and looks at Kris, waiting for his reaction with chin held high.

Kris just stares back and waits.

Adam mutters, "Damn it," and glares at the carpet for more words. "Okay, see, I'm totally a normal guy."

Which is a total lie, given the man-without-a-past thing. Kris cocks an eyebrow.

Adam throws his hands up. "No, of course you don't believe me. Fine, you wanna hear how rough I had it?" He talks fast, angry, "I grew up in a nice ranch house in San Diego. My parents've been happily married for 30 years; they figured out I was gay before I did, and they supported me 100%. My brother and I talk _all the time_, and my mom worries about my weight and sends me care packages every month like I'm still in college.

"I came out at UCLA, surrounded by an entire theatre program of out and proud gays. I worked my ass off to get some opportunities, and I lucked into the others. I was in a fucking Broadway touring production for two years! And now I'm in one of the most famous drag revues in the country, doing exactly what I wanna do.

"I'm fucking blessed, okay? No traumatic, life-defining shit here. You want issues? Don't look at me."

Kris is stunned. "Okay. Wow."

"Yeah, _wow_," Adam sneers, arms crossed over his chest, his entire posture defensive.

"So..." Kris isn't sure where to start. "So you're totally normal and well-adjusted."

"Alert the media."

"Why are you so pissed off right now?"

The question makes Adam pause. He avoids Kris's eyes when he explains. "I don't like talking about it."

"You... You don't like talking about your past. Even though you just said it was all sunshine and flowers and love."

Adam squirms, juts one hip out further. "Well, most of it."

"And the part that wasn't? Is that the part where Daisy &amp; Frankie think you're _broken_ and need to be protected from bad men?"

Adam rolls his eyes and then blinks, almost cracks a smile. "Shit, they said that? To _you_? Oh my god, did they _haze_ you?"

"They tried," Kris shrugs, refusing to be distracted. "But they're convinced something's wrong with you. So what's up with that?"

"_You_ thought something was wrong with me," Adam points out.

"Yeah, but that's because you wouldn't tell me anything about.... No."

Adam actually looks a little ashamed. "...yeah."

"They're your _friends_. Aren't they?"

"Yeah, but they're also _them_. They're huge; the best in the business!"

Kris shakes his head, not following Adam's logic for letting his friends think he's something he's not. Something _worse_ than he is.

Adam exhales through his nose in a long sigh, unclenches his arms and starts picking at his fingernail polish. "Let's just say I've...no, look, fuck the pretenses. Flat out: I'm sick of people holding it against me. I've had too many costars tell me I can't interpret the music, can't deliver the lyrics convincingly, because I've never truly 'suffered for my art.' And too many boyfriends who are all, 'you don't understand me because you were never kicked out or beat up for being a fag.' I'm sick of guys thinking they're a better gay, a better artist, a better _person_ than me, just because I couldn't compete in a whose-life-is-harder competition.

"I got fucking sick of it, so I just stopped talking about myself. If people think that makes me all scarred or whatever, that's them projecting their own shit."

"So I've been projecting my own shit on you?" Kris asks.

Adam blanches. "I didn't mean you-"

"Yeah, you did," Kris cuts him off.

"I didn't mean it like _that_. I know you've had a rough time, and I wanna hear about it, I care about all that stuff, I do. Just...I don't think I'm gonna be able to cope if you keep saying I can't relate 'cause I grew up on the beach in California."

The insecurity in that statement is what makes it all believable. "C'mere," Kris says, holding his arms open.

Adam hesitates for a long moment, clearly expecting the one-sided fight to continue. Kris waits him out until Adam finally shuffles over and sits next to him, lets Kris wrap an arm around his back.

"Do you have any idea how anticlimactic this is?" he asks Adam's shoulder.

Adam huffs out something that sounds like a laugh. "A little."

"Good."

"I'm sorry. I should've said something on Saturday when you asked."

"Or last Wednesday. Or last Sunday, when I was dumping all my issues on your dining room table. Or any other time in between."

Adam leans some weight against him. "I know. But I liked you."

"And you thought I was gonna be a judgmental ass about it?"

"Well. There's this trend in my love life where at first guys think it's cute how normal I am, or whatever. But then the teasing turns into holier-than-thou bullshit and I end up having to either dump them or become a secret cutter to compete."

"Not to mention, the longer you lead them on, the more awkward this conversation becomes, right?"

"...right," Adam reluctantly agrees.

"You know where I'm going with that, right?" Kris presses.

"I should talk to Daisy &amp; Frankie."

"Yeah. Before they get the idea you're some manipulative asshole." Adam winces and Kris hugs him tighter. "Not that you are. You're good, babe. You're not as well-adjusted as you think, but you're _good_."

"So you don't hate me?"

Kris kisses his cheek. "Not a chance."

Adam reaches across Kris to catch the neck of the guitar, drags it onto Kris's lap, smoothly changing the subject. "Then I believe you mentioned something about your entire oeuvre...."

And Kris could do that, would play all night if Adam asked him to, but there's something else he wants to do—_needs_ to do. "What time do you have to be at the Wyndham?"

"8:30."

"You should go get dressed."

Adam looks at his watch and frowns. "I've got hours."

"Not if I'm taking you to dinner first."

Adam pulls back and _smolders_ at him. "Kristopher Robin, are you asking me out on a _date_?"

"Only if you never call me that again," Kris responds, giving him a warning poke on the collarbone.

Adam catches his wrist and tugs Kris closer, leans in to meet him in a hard kiss. "Deal," he promises, breath passing from his lungs to Kris's.

****   
  


It's his first date since the divorce—hell, since his wedding, so that's like...six years. It's his first date in _six years_, and Kris has no idea where to take Adam. Luckily, Adam saves the day, having Kris park at the Wyndham before they walk down the block to a fancy French restaurant.

Adam looks like a million bucks with his slicked hair, sharp black jacket and silver tie, skinny suit pants and polished shoes. Kris put a little effort in, too—he's got a plain white button down over his plain white t-shirt, but a brown corduroy jacket that looks pretty good with his khakis. Adam had gelled Kris's brown hair so it spikes up symmetrically. And so long as no one looks at Kris's beat up loafers, he shouldn't get thrown out.

They don't have a reservation, and the place is almost completely booked, so they end up squeezed into a corner table against the back wall where the lights are dim and the candlelight flickers over Adam's cheekbones, where Kris can hold his hand on the table and appreciate everything he's gained.

Adam orders an expensive rabbit dish. Kris orders a steak. When Adam teases Kris about taking the Conway out of the boy, Kris turns it around, makes Adam tell him about his favorite foods growing up. Adam flushes and admits to feeling chunky through most of high school. "In hindsight, I wasn't actually fat. It just felt that way, you know?"

Kris counters that with, "In hindsight, I wasn't actually straight," and grins as Adam's embarrassment fades under the laughter.

Kris is relentless, making Adam do all of the talking, and almost all about his past. Adam doesn't seem to mind, loosens up with the second glass of sauvignon and volunteers more stories without prodding. Some of them are sad, a lot of them are happy, and a few are downright ridiculous, like Adam bragging about getting to play the leading lady in his high school's performance of _Kiss Me, Kate_.

"I thought you didn't come out 'til college."

"I didn't! But none of the girls could hit the high A's in a corset. _And_ my legs looked pretty good in the skirts."

"They still do," Kris admits without thinking, and Adam gives a little squeak of delight, his eyes going sparkly for a moment. It's Kris's turn to blush; it's the first time he's complimented Adam's feminine affectations and he's surprised to realize that he sincerely means it, about all of them...and that he's been withholding that from Adam.

At around 8:00, Kris excuses himself to use the bathroom that's barely a dozen steps down the hall behind them. Adam waggles his sculpted eyebrows—seriously, he'd used clear mascara on them, and Kris wants to run his fingers over them, maybe lick them—and offers to join Kris in a minute.

Kris swats Adam's shoulder as he steps around him, says a firm, "Not on your life; you stay _right there_."

He uses the urinal and washes his hands in the private restroom, considers his reflection for a long moment. He looks okay; good by his own standards, which had fallen pretty low in recent months. His mom would be proud of him; cleaning up for a proper date, paying for a nice restaurant...declining a quickie in the bathroom despite the way the thought of Adam's mouth gets his blood pumping.

He'd told his mom yesterday that he was seeing somebody. A man. She hadn't taken it well—he's pretty sure he'd heard her sniffling on the other end of the line. But she would come around; she'll _love_ Adam, he's sure of it.

Something scrapes behind him, long and uneven, like metal on wood. It sounds like it's in the wall, behind the gold fleur-de-lis wallpaper. Kris's head spins around and he stares at the wall, waiting for the sound to come again. His heart rate is definitely up now, and not from thoughts of Adam.

The bathroom is no longer silent. There are voices, muffled vowels and staccato consonants like whispers coming through the air vent high near the ceiling. The doorknob twists and stops, the handle rattling sharply, and Kris can smell the sharp scent of the urinal cake, the lemon-fresh deodorizer next to the sink.

His eyes are riveted on the locked, brass handle, his pulse is pounding against his temples and it's getting hard to breathe, hard to see, like the deodorizing mist has filled the air, filling up the room. And it's behind the walls, whispering to him, waiting for him to come back, waiting for tomorrow night.

And this is a god damn panic attack, he realizes. It's not real, none of this is actually happening, he's freaking the fuck out in the bathroom of a fancy restaurant because of something that's more than 30 miles distant and 24 hours off. Something he doesn't need to be thinking about at all.

Kris clutches the edge of the sink with one hand and tugs at the high neck of his t-shirt with the other, trying to breathe. He can do this, he can get a grip, get himself under control. It's just his own head, his own mind, and he can control that, he can take charge, he can say it, say

"_Stop_!"

The shout echoes in the tiny room, bouncing off the walls and pummeling his ear drums like an air horn. Before the bad thoughts can come back in, he reminds himself firmly that he doesn't have time to be hanging out in a bathroom. He's on a date with Adam, and Adam has to get to the Wyndham in a few minutes. Adam has to sing in that shiny lounge, in his slick suit and makeup, and Kris is going to smile at the waitress and sit in a leather chair right near the front this time, and he's going to let Adam sing just for him.

His breaths are slowing, his pulse evening out. Kris runs the tap, splashes cold water on his face and pats it dry with two high-quality paper towels, nodding at his reflection until he knows he can get back to his date, he can get Adam to the Wyndham on time.

He squares his shoulders, smoothes the collar of his t-shirt, and unlocks the door, opens it to find an embarrassed patron waiting outside. "Sorry," the guy mumbles, not meeting his eyes, and Kris realizes what he must have sounded like. He grimaces awkwardly and hurries around the corner, back to his table.

Adam looks up as he brushes by, his face pale and tense, his fingers white-knuckling the table cloth. He grabs Kris's fingers as Kris sits down, squeezes them and chokes out, "Are you okay?"

Because Adam had heard it, too. But unlike the guy who'd jiggled the handle, Adam knew exactly what was going on in there. Kris finds a smile for him, drags it out of hiding. "Got a little spooked, but I got it under control."

"You did," Adam says, scrutinizing his face.

"Yeah," Kris confirms, the smile coming easier as he absorbs the importance of that success. "Yeah, I did."

"I was freaking out, out here," Adam admits, rubbing his thumb over Kris's knuckles.

"I'm sorry. Thanks for not breaking down the door or anything."

"I'm not gonna lie, it was a near thing. But this is too nice a place to get thrown out of."

"Yeah, it is."

Adam squeezes his hand again, his perfectly-done face still marred by concern.

"I'm okay," Kris says. "Really. I'm good."

"Okay," Adam nods, still holding on.

"Adam, you have to go."

"I know." He finally leans back, releases Kris's fingers. "I know. I already asked for the bill."

"You'd better not have paid."

"Oh no, this is your date; you get to be the gentleman." Adam's frown lines ease and Kris manages to get his wineglass in hand, tips back the last of his glass. "You sure you're okay? You don't have to come with me."

The waiter drops off the black bill folder and Kris slips in his credit card without checking it. "I'm not done with you yet. I bought you dinner, you owe me at least one song."

Adam pulls his napkin off his lap and lays it carefully on the table in front of him. "I think you've got the wrong guy. I'm not some _lounge singer_; I don't take requests."

Kris leans over the table. "I bought you roulade de lapin, you can damn well sing me some Johnny Cash."

"Johnny Cash?" Adam's eyes go wide in genuine-seeming horror. "I don't do Johnny Cash. No way. No country."

"At least give me some Elvis," Kris compromises. A plot spreads across Adam's lips and Kris puts a finger on the closed bill folder. "_Classy_ Elvis."

"Oh, I'll give you some Elvis," Adam smirks.

Kris can suddenly see this going very, very badly. "I changed my mind, you don't have to-"

"No, no, I want to. I can't _wait_ to give you some Elvis."

"I hate you."

"Not yet you don't."

****   
  


Leaving Adam in the morning feels harder than it should. Kris unwraps those long arms to slide free, pulls the covers back up over Adam's freckled chest, combs the stiff hair across the pillow. He's warm and soft in the white light of dawn, fast asleep yet still luring Kris back in. Kris used to watch Katy sleep, too, but it had always felt like an invasion of her privacy. Here, with Adam...he doesn't think Adam would mind, somehow. And that's not something Kris can walk away from easily.

But he's got a job to go to, and a big day ahead of him—_stop_, he reminds himself—and he has to keep himself busy to keep the nerves at bay. So he twitches the curtains to block out a little more light, types a message into Adam's cell phone, and lets himself out the door as quietly as he can.

****   
  


"Just so we're clear—this doesn't count as our second date."

Kris laughs despite the thick tension as he pulls onto Guillaume Court at 8 p.m. He doesn't call Adam on the amount of product in his James Dean hair, the sparkly green eyeliner and smoky shadow around the outsides of his eyes, the freshly-done nails, or the casually-layered necklaces and rings, all of which scream hours of meticulous primping.

Adam switches off the radio and grins at him, acting like everything's fine the way he does so well. There's someone standing in the parking lot, and when Kris swings the Toyota into his parking space, he recognizes the voodoo shop proprietor waiting next to a tan American sedan with some cardboard boxes stacked on the trunk.

They climb out of the car and Kris hurries over to greet him, extending his hand with a grateful smile, "Michael Dee."

"The man with the ghost," Michael nods, pumps his hand a few times. And then he squints his eyes at the ring of identical, tidy, brick façade buildings, and says, "Mind telling me what we're doing in a condo development?"

"You tell me," Kris says, relieved to not be here on his own. "That's the million dollar question."

"Hey, glad to see you again," Adam sticks his own hand out. "Sorry about before."

"No sweat," Michael smiles. "But seriously, a haunted condo? When I suggested Jimmy's tours, I thought you were talking about something a little older."

"I don't think my condo board would want tours coming through here anyway."

Adam sidles closer to the trunk. "What's in the boxes?"

"Supplies. Theresa gave me a list of stuff she needed from the shop. You game to help me carry?"

"You bet. Anything fragile in there?"

"Yeah, be careful with 'em."

"I break it, Kris buys it." Adam winks at Kris.

Kris picks up the next box and kicks the back of Adam's boot a few times as they head toward the stairs.

"Nice place," Michael says, walking into Kris's condo without any hesitation.

"Everybody keeps saying that," Kris grumbles as Adam nudges him across the threshold, jabbing his spine with a sharp box corner. "And then they run out of here screaming."

"I wasn't screaming," Adam defends himself. "It was only a couple whimpers."

Michael seems amused. "We're gonna use the table, so can I put this stuff in the kitchen for now?"

"You're staying?" Kris blinks.

"Yeah. Theresa asked, so. I mean, you're okay with me helping out, right?"

"Whoever she wants to bring, I'm cool with it," Kris says. "I heard she's bringing another psychiatrist, but you're welcome, too."

"Psychiatrist?"

"Yeah. Like Dr. Mordeau. Which you totally should have mentioned when you set us up with her," Adam accuses, sliding his box next to Michael's on the kitchen counter.

"Why? You two didn't seem interested in her day job."

Adam tips his head in Kris's direction. "The clinic kind of felt like a set up, is what I'm saying. You sent us to see a _shrink_."

"Naw, I totally didn't mean it that way."

Adam stares him down a little longer than necessary, intent on getting some payback.

Michael squirms and thumps his knee against the low cabinets a few times. "Okay, wow. That must've looked.... Heh. Um, sorry."

"Apology accepted," Kris says firmly, bumping Adam aside so he can squeeze the third box on the countertop. Whatever it is about the guy, Michael and Adam just don't seem to get along.

And then the doorbell rings.

They all turn to look at the front door, which Adam had neglected to shut on the way in. There's a short white guy at least 50 years old standing where a welcome mat would have been, if Kris had ever gotten around to buying one.

"Hey, Joseph," Michael calls, "come on in."

"Mr. Allen?" the doctor asks, looking between Kris and Adam.

"That's me. Come in, please." Kris crosses to greet him, forcing himself to smile at the presence of another stranger in his home. "Dr...."

"Dr. Kielce, but call me Joseph." Kris can't tell if the dark circles under the newcomer's eyes are from lack of sleep or genetics, but he seems wide awake, practically vibrating with energy. They shake hands and Kris's guest finally steps into the condo.

"Great, okay. I'm Kris, this is Adam, and I guess you already know Mr. Dee."

"Yes, Michael's met with me a few times. You have a lovely home."

Adam steps around Joseph, completely missing the proffered handshake, and peeks out into the exterior hallway looking for something. He closes the door and locks the deadbolt before turning back around.

Michael is grinning. "Kris doesn't want any compliments—he hates this place."

"Hey, it's not that I..." Kris stops lying to himself and sighs. "Yeah, I kinda do." He _always_ has, since even before the weird stuff started.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Joseph says with a sympathetic frown. "Having an encounter with the other side should be a positive, faith-affirming experience."

"Uh huh. You keep telling yourself that," Adam drawls.

Michael suddenly says, "Oh! _This_ isn't the psychiatrist you thought.... Joseph isn't a shrink."

Adam's eyes narrow. "Then what kind of doctor areyou?"

"Museum Studies. Under the Masters program at Southeastern's Baton Rouge campus."

"You're a professor?" Kris asks.

"Adjunct professor. I'm a researcher, primarily. My field is religions of North American subcultures."

"Don't let the title fool you; he only took the job so he could get closer to _us_," Michael interjects.

Joseph's lips twitch with disdain. "Well, I certainly didn't take it because I love teaching young minds." The expression passes quickly, replaced by a genuine smile. "They add a thrice-published author to their Masters recruitment brochures, and I don't have to fly back and forth from Pennsylvania for my interviews. It's a win-win."

Kris and Adam exchange a long look.

"Michael and Theresa have been truly wonderful subjects, introducing me around to the community, really helping me get to the root of their beliefs and social structures. And _you_, Kris! I'm especially excited to be here for your ritual tonight."

"Speaking of which," Michael says, picking up on the skeptical vibes the two of them are sharing, "why don't we get started?"

"Oh yes," Joseph says, pulling one of the boxes to his side of the kitchen counter and digging inside. "Theresa gave me a list of what she wants...."

"Adam, Kris, could you push the table into the living room a bit? So there's a little more space to move around?"

"You got it." Kris jerks his chin and Adam follows him around the island, picks up the far side of the small, round table and drags it once Kris gets the chairs out of the way. "There's gonna be five of us, unless she's invited anyone else," Kris frowns at his four wooden chairs.

"On it," Adam says, heading for the coat closet. He produces Kris's stepstool. "I've always wondered why terminally short people bother storing things where they can't reach them. Care to comment, Kris?"

"Shut up, Gigantor."

"Should I be looking for a booster seat for your chair?" Adam asks sweetly, sliding the stool into place with the other chairs.

"Excellent," Joseph chirps, bringing a double-handful of tea-lights to the table. He spreads them out a little and then lays a string of fresh flowers in between. Next, he brings over a set of two small bowls. "Theresa should be facing that way, right?" he calls over his shoulder.

"Right!" Michael says, his arms deep in another box.

The two bowls are placed side by side in front of her chair. Kris and Adam stand back, watching Michael and Joseph sort through the boxes, Joseph talking like he knows what he's doing, Michael unpacking an army of little boxes and supplying approval when asked. And then Joseph finds a small, beige bag on a leather thong and brings it to the table. "Found it."

"What's that?" Kris asks, leaning forward to look.

"Your gris-gris. A protective amulet."

"Okay," Kris says gamely.

Joseph pulls the leather loop wide and lifts it as though to pass it over Kris's head but then stops, frowning. "Wait! It isn't quite done yet. We need to make it yours." He spins around and sorts through the boxes until he comes up with a small pair of nail clippers. "Which do you prefer—hair or nails?"

"What?"

"For the final ingredient. I need a bit of hair or fingernail." He frowns down at Kris's hands. "Those are pretty short already." He sounds dismayed. Kris is tempted to explain that he has to keep them that short for the guitar, but the professor keeps chattering. "So we'll do hair. Just a little bit, that's all. Okay?"

"I. Fine," Kris agrees, shoving off the arm of the sofa for his haircut.

Adam is clearly chewing on the inside of his cheek but Kris refuses to be concerned. This is what he'd asked for, and he's not about to get upset about a little personal grooming. The key to believing in a voodoo ritual, Kris suspects, is not over-thinking it.

"Here, hold this," Joseph commands, pressing the open pouch into his hands. Kris ducks his head to sniff at the contents. He chokes a bit and Joseph tsks him. "It's the sulfur, I know. Try not to breathe it. Okay, anywhere in particular? Are you working on a mullet I should be worried about?"

Adam makes the obligatory mullet crack, "We should _all_ be worried about that."

"Wherever," Kris coughs, wincing at the lingering scent of rotten eggs.

Joseph steps behind him, gets his hands up close to Kris's head, and then pulls back with a tiny clump of brown hair pinched between his thumb and forefinger. "You don't have any product in this, do you?" he suddenly asks. "Michael, does it matter if he's used anything in his hair?"

"Nah, it's good," Michael says.

"It's clean," Kris reassures him. Adam snickers something under his breath and Kris shoots him a quelling look while Joseph adds the hair to the bag, massages the contents a little, and pulls the top shut.

"Alright then, this is all yours. Put it around your neck. Theresa will say a prayer over it once she gets here."

Kris checks his watch; it's almost 8:30. "Is she running late, or...."

"She'll be here," Joseph promises, unconcerned. "She also needs a doll. I think I saw one in...."

Kris goes back to leaning against the couch, ignoring Adam's fingers ruffling the hair on the back of his head.

The professor slaps a fistful of white linen stuffed with something soft-looking and lumpy, sewn roughly in the shape of a human, onto the table. It looks like the ones from Michael's shop and Kris can't help the weird chill that passes through him.

"Um."

Joseph starts going through his pockets, pulls out a wrinkled, yellow receipt and unfolds it, looking at both sides. Then he tears a strip off the bottom and smoothes it down on the table, puts a blue pen next to it. "Sign your name," he says.

Kris hesitates. It's not that he believes in any of this but...remnants of his old faith are surfacing, warning him against dark rituals that can give dark things power over you. Or maybe he's just seen too many movies. He takes a deep breath and walks over to the table, signs his name on the tiny bit of slippery-smooth carbon paper before he has second-thoughts. And then Joseph picks a pin out of a tiny plastic box of pins on the counter and holds it over the doll, his thumb positioning the signature over its heart.

Adam inhales sharply behind him, Kris opens his mouth to protest, and Joseph blithely pushes the needle into the doll, pinning the signature to its chest. "There. Now the doll is _you_," he reports, pleased. When the professor looks up, he sees the stunned looks on both their faces and his smile of accomplishment falters. "No, no, it's good that it's you. This is another unhexing gris-gris."

"You stuck a _needle_ in Kris-" Adam sputters.

"Just to affix its identity." He looks back and forth between them, concern growing at their continued silence.

"Too many movies?" Kris apologizes, only partially mollified by Joseph's well-intentioned protestations. He's not going to freak out about something as stupid as a doll with his name on it, no matter how many pins they stick in it. He's _fine_.

But his response sets Joseph off in a completely different direction. The professor straightens and moves his hands in an agitated flutter. "Yes! You see, this is why I need to write this book. There are so many misconceptions about the true nature of Louisiana Voodoo. You probably think voodoo dolls are used for physical harm, pin-sticking, and so forth. But gris-gris's are for blessings or uncrossings; they _protect_ you from curses. Hollywood's got it all wrong with those horror movies-"

"He's lived here for two months and he's already our patron saint," Michael teases, coming over to the table with a set of miniature, painted wooden figures.

"Don't try to pretend you aren't just as insulted by the constant misconceptions created by mass media."

"I make my living off those misconceptions," Michael smiles slyly. "Tourists want what they want, and I'm not about to talk them out of a purchase to appease my community's wounded pride."

"Bullshit," Adam says. "You were all up in our faces Sunday about what voodoo can and can't do."

"Well," Michael shrugs, "you pissed me off."

"I knew it," Adam grumbles, and then the doorbell rings.

Everyone looks at Kris, so he collects himself and opens the door for his voodoo priestess.

Dr. Mordeau's wearing a cream silk blouse with a brown scarf and a floral-pattern skirt, dark hose, and sensible flats. And she looks annoyed. "I'm sorry I'm late," she says as she brushes past Kris, sounding none too apologetic. "The line at Saint Peter's was ridiculous. Did everyone in the congregation have to commit a mortal sin _today_?"

"Probably the new moon," Michael suggests, kissing her cheek and taking the paper grocery bag out of her arms.

"You got everything set up? Joseph, I'm so glad you made it."

Joseph shakes her hand and gushes, "I can't tell you what this means to me, Theresa! Thank you ever so much for arranging this."

"We're almost ready," Michael says. "The table's set. I was holding off on the potion until you got here."

"Okay, good. And Joseph, it's Kris who's invited you. I had very little to do with it."

"Of course!" he corrects himself.

"Thank you so much for coming, Doctor," Kris greets her politely, wanting to be sure he does right by his upbringing.

"I'm not your therapist; call me Theresa," she says brusquely. "So you've all gotten to know each other? Adam," she nods to him, "nice to see you again. How has Kris been?"

Adam blinks in surprise and Kris protests, "I can answer for myself."

"I know you can, Kris, but you're the least objective person in this room." She smiles at him, the first genuine relaxation of her frown since she walked in, and Kris feels himself relax a little, too. "So, Adam?"

"He stopped a panic attack yesterday," Adam reports after looking to Kris for permission.

"Just one?"

"There was _only_ one," Kris answers firmly.

"Very good," she says like she means it. "And nothing tonight?"

"Not yet," he agrees cautiously. "I haven't been alone; your experts have been here, so I think they're, I don't know...."

"Reassuring," she finishes for him. "Yes. That's _very_ good. Remember, the ritual will only work if _you_ believe it will. Trusting us is the start of that. Now, Michael, let's get to work on that potion." She unbuttons her cuffs and rolls up her sleeves, heading for the kitchen.

Adam drifts over to the door and cranks the deadbolt again, then looks around the room and heads for the hall closet.

Kris watches the bustle around him and tells himself to believe in all of it, like she said. And then Adam comes back holding the little broom from his dust-pan set and lays it across the threshold of the locked front door. Kris stares and raises his brows and shoulders in a silent question when Adam looks up and realizes he's been caught.

"Kris, come over here and sit down," Joseph says, beckoning him over to the table. The professor sits himself in the chair on Theresa's right and motions Kris into the unclaimed chair next to him.

Adam takes the short stool on Kris's other side, his head a good four inches lower than theirs.

"Now who's the midget?" Kris whispers. "And what the hell was that with the dust broom?"

Adam coughs a little but doesn't answer.

Joseph pulls out an iPhone and lays it on the cluttered table. "I'm going to be taking a good deal of notes and photos tonight, if you don't mind."

Kris nods.

"You don't mind, do you?" Joseph presses, catching his eye. "I need an explicit statement of permission."

"No, I'm fine with it," Kris confirms.

"And if I need your signature on any photo rights forms, you'll provide that before I go to print?"

Kris hesitates. Doing a favor for his priestess's friend, sure; providing research for an academic's book, why not; but having his identity published, his name and face linked to a voodoo ritual and haunting.... "I'd rather not. I'd rather be anonymous. If that's okay."

"Oh. Oh! I see, of course. That's fine. I promise I won't use any shots of your face."

"And leave my name out of it? I'm probably not the only Kris Allen out there, but even still...."

"Don't say another word. I swear you'll be completely anonymous. So I _have_ your permission to take photos and notes of the ritual on the condition of anonymity?"

"Yes."

"_Thank you_," Joseph says, sticking out his hand for another shake, his smile broad. "My publisher would've given me hell if I'd skipped that. Can I start asking you some questions now?"

Theresa and Michael have their heads together in the kitchen, grinding something in a pestle and tutting over a flask and a bowl. "Yeah, looks like we've got time."

"Great! I want you to tell me what made you choose voodoo for handling your situation. What were your preconceptions about the religion, your previous encounters with it, the opinions of your friends and family, etc." Joseph calls up a typing app on his phone and waits with his fingers poised over the keypad.

Adam's hand squeezes Kris's thigh under the table, and Kris takes a deep breath and begins at the beginning.

****   
  


Some two hours later, Kris's throat is dry from talking, Theresa and Michael are finally done with prep work they probably could have accomplished _before_ the prescribed meeting time, and Joseph knows everything there is to tell about Kris's religious upbringing, his home-buying experiences here and in Arkansas, and his history with his ghost. Adam had made them all a pot of coffee in the middle of it, and then spent the second half of the interview shifting uncomfortably on the stool and playing with the Kris-doll, which Kris had determinedly ignored. He hopes Adam was paying attention to the early part of the conversation at least, because that would stave off any future arguments about why Kris doesn't go to church anymore and won't talk to half his family.

Theresa comes around the counter and clears her throat, getting their attention. "I'm sorry this took so long. It turns out I'm a little out of practice, and Michael," she shoots a glare at the shop owner, who looks embarrassed, "has forgotten everything I taught him about how to tell one herb from another."

Michael, who had disappeared from the condo for a good hour during Joseph's interview, is forcefully upbeat when he says, "But we're ready now." He holds one of Kris's coffee mugs out and says, "Drink this."

Kris takes the mug and makes the mistake of looking inside. "It's," he starts, looking for words to describe the brown that doesn't resemble coffee, the thickness that isn't at all like a milkshake. Having already sniffed the contents of the amulet he's wearing, he's not sure he wants to smell whatever this is.

"Don't ask. And try not to taste it. Just swallow the whole thing as fast as you can," Michael suggests.

Adam leans closer to see for himself. "What's it do?" Kris pulls the mug away so Adam can't see inside.

"It's a cure-all; a universal uncrossing. If any curses have been worked against Kris, this will break them."

Adam frowns. "I thought that's what the amulet was for. And the doll."

"They're all to the same end," Theresa explains. "I'm giving a thorough demonstration for Joseph's benefit. You don't mind, do you?" She raises her black brows in challenge and Kris isn't about to go there. "Besides, Kris only has to believe in _one_ uncrossing to make it effective. Given that he's a nonbeliever, we're increasing those odds."

More to appease Theresa than because he believes in magical potions, Kris gulps, holds his nose, and tips the white mug back. He swallows, gags, swallows, gags, and squeezes his eyes shut, coughs his way through the whole cup, grainy and thick, oily and metallic, with chunks of something at the end that go down hard. Once the mug is empty he pushes it into Adam's waiting hands and slaps a hand on the table top, eyes watering as he forces the last chunks down.

And then Joseph edges closer and asks, "What did it taste like?"

Kris coughs, gags again, and shakes his head.

"If you wanna know, I can make you one," Michael offers, and Kris can't tell if his tone is nasty or nice.

"That'd be great-"

"Not tonight," Theresa says firmly. "Another time, Joseph."

"Oh," the professor says, crestfallen. He types on his iPhone again and then holds the phone over the stained mug and snaps a photo.

"Now, we've got just a few more things to get set and we'll be ready. Since you aren't Catholic, I assume you don't have any religious icons: rosaries, medallions?"

"Right."

She shakes her head and pulls a square of lace out of her skirt pocket, unfolding it to reveal a silver chain and pendant. "I got this for you; it's a Saint Christopher medal. You shouldn't ignore your name-sake saint, especially when you're up against the unknown like this."

She passes the chain over and Kris examines the shiny surface of the disc, the engraved figures of a big man carrying a little boy. It means nothing to him, but he doesn't think she wants to hear that. He passes it off to Adam, who wrinkles his nose like he thinks it's tacky and then wraps the delicate chain around Kris's wrist for him. Theresa doesn't point out that it's not a bracelet, so Kris doesn't mention it either.

She presses Michael into the empty chair on Adam's right and asks him to finish the amulet.

Michael reaches past Adam to put his fingers on the bag around Kris's neck and bows his head, whispers words that Kris assumes are voodoo mumbo jumbo until he catches, "blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."

Theresa takes her own seat at the table, gently nestling a shoebox in the center of the flower-chains and carved figures and tea lights and bowls of powder. She's wearing a rosary now.

"I'm confused," Kris whispers to Joseph while Theresa kisses her rosary beads and Michael folds his hands in prayer.

"About what?"

"They're...Catholic?"

Joseph smiles indulgently. "Most voodoo followers are practicing Catholics. The spiritual hierarchy of the two religions is very similar—one God, a heavenly host, interceding saints. Voodoo survived in Louisiana by adopting Catholic symbols and terminology for its own-."

"Shh," Theresa interrupts, one eye open and scowling at them.

Joseph pats Kris's hand and whispers, "I'll tell you later. I've already got three chapters on it."

So that's _two_ religions Kris is supposed to believe in to make this ritual work. At least with Catholicism he knows who the major players are, but he's never said a Hail Mary before, never bought into the need for intercessory prayers...and he isn't all that sure he still believes in God.

But on the plus side, it looks like he's getting that Catholic exorcism Adam'd wanted after all.

Michael finishes with the amulet and lights the tea candles. And then Theresa pulls the lid off the shoebox and Kris hears a soft rustling, leans closer to see the source.

Theresa pulls out a snake; a black serpent that coils around her forearms and hisses, flaring its hood as it bares its fangs. Kris jerks away when she holds the snake out toward him, nearly knocking over his chair as he scoots it back.

Adam is already off the stool, standing a good four feet from the table. He gasps, "That's a fucking _cobra_."

"No it's not," Theresa says patiently. "Sit down. It won't hurt you."

The two-foot long reptile hisses at Kris, then notices Joseph and swings to the right to hiss at his iPhone as the professor snaps some shots. "It's a hog-nosed snake," he explains. "Common to this area and completely harmless unless injured. All bark, no bite."

"And no venom?" Adam presses.

"No venom. You're totally safe."

"Do we really need to-" Kris says faintly, because there's believing voodoo or Catholicism can help, and then there's having a live snake shoved in his face.

"You don't have a snake phobia, do you?" Theresa asks, and her tone is mild but Kris can hear the mocking edge she would never use on a paying patient.

His spine stiffens and he inches his chair closer. "Just tell me why it's here."

"Li grand zombi is our conduit to Saint Patrick," Michael says. "He will show her what's haunting you."

Theresa waits until Kris is back at the table before extending the snake again, murmuring to it with closed eyes, "Saint Patrick, give me sight. Show me the spirit that plagues this house."

Kris keeps his eyes fixed on the sinuous black body in her hands, shoulders tensing impossibly further as the snake's head swivels his way again, rears up just six inches from his nose. "What am I supposed to do?" he whispers, trying not to move.

"Believe," Michael says.


	6. Chapter 6

Despite Kris's best efforts to believe, the ritual itself is boring and uneventful. Theresa and Michael chant over the Kris-doll in an unfamiliar language, sprinkle powders into the bowls, kiss the little wooden figures representing the loa—"Spirits that govern everyday life," Joseph had explained—hold hands and chant some more. Theresa works her way around the rosary with Hail Marys and the Lord's Prayer, dabs paste on Kris's forehead, and makes _him_ hold the snake for a few minutes.

Adam starts yawning as they close in on midnight, and Kris tries not to think that the only one whose time _isn't_ being wasted here is Joseph, busily filming, photographing, and taking notes on the proceedings. Kris is impatient for this to be over so he can get out of there...and maybe he's a little worried that something actually_ will_ happen, he can't be faulted for that. His attention strays from Theresa's fifth invocation of Papa Legba; he can't help but think of being back on Adam's couch, just the two of them, with no one chanting Psalms or making him drink disgusting potions that taste like honey, metal, and mud, of the kiss Adam had given him when he'd gotten back from the studio earlier that day.

The lights flicker.

"What the-" Adam says, suddenly alert.

Theresa's and Michael's eyes are closed, but Joseph looks around and then at the two of them with surprise.

Kris reaches out and grabs Adam's hand, holds his breath and prays it was just an electrical surge.

The lights flicker again, and this time Kris feels it, the brushing of something against the back of his neck, all the hair on his body suddenly standing straight up. "It's," he warns Adam, squeezing his hand as tight as he can. It's whispering. No, _laughing_. It's in the bedroom watching them, and Kris stares at the dark doorway, the bedroom door they hadn't bothered to shut hanging open. Was it just his eyes playing tricks, or did the door just swing an inch wider?

"What is it, Kris?" Joseph asks, studying him carefully. "Do you feel something?"

"It's here," Kris says. All eyes open and turn on him, looking for more information. "It's in the bedroom."

"What does it feel like? Can you describe it?"

"Keep your breathing calm," Theresa says in therapist-mode.

"It's." And how can Kris possibly describe it when he can't hear it, can't see it, can't touch it? He just _knows_.

The bedroom door slams shut and everyone gasps.

"Jesus Christ!" Michael makes the sign of the cross over his chest and stares at the door.

Theresa's mouth closes, her lips press firmly, and then she takes hold of her rosary and says, "Everyone, pray with me. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name." They follow along. Even Adam mumbles the few phrases he's picked up from her earlier repetitions.

It's been waiting. It's ready now.

"Who said that?" Joseph whispers, interrupting the prayer. Kris looks at him in surprise. "Somebody just said _I'm ready_."

"You heard that?" Kris demands. "That wasn't me. That was..." The other three are looking at Kris and Joseph.

Adam's shaking slightly, his leg bouncing nervously against the rung of Kris's chair. "It talks? It's _ready_? For what?"

Joseph's face is awed. He taps away at his iPhone again. Kris can see sweat breaking out on his neck.

Theresa's actually looking worried, which is not helping Kris's confidence. "Theresa, tell me it's gonna be okay."

She shares a dubious look with Michael and buckles down to her rosary again. "They know what they're doing," Adam tries.

The fluorescent bulb in the overhead kitchen light bursts with a flash and a loud pop, and then a breeze flickers the candles.

"Where is it," Adam whispers.

Circling.

"Oh my God," Joseph says, whipping his head around. "Theresa, have you ever experienced anything like this before?"

Theresa is too busy to answer, she and Michael are chanting to Papa Legba, asking for protection from the loa.

Kris's internal organs are twisting themselves in knots. He has to pee, he wants to puke, his mouth's dry and his skin feels cold and clammy. He brought them here to handle the ghost, not to become fellow victims. The only reason he came back in here was because he thought it would be safe. He thought they could control it.

Nothing can control it.

"The snake," Theresa demands, and Michael tosses the shoebox lid over his shoulder and thrusts the snake into her hands. "Saint Patrick, show me!" she commands.

The television explodes in a shower of sparks and glass.

They all duck except Theresa, who's staring with wide eyes white with fear. "That's. Saints and Spirits, heavenly Father, what _is that_," she cries, dropping the snake amid the flowers on the table.

"Theresa, what should I do," Michael asks urgently. "Sweet merciful Father, look down on your children with kindness and protect us from the demons that plague us. Papa Legba, protector of the Gates of Heaven, defend your servants." The snake slithers off the table between Theresa and Michael, neither bothering to stop it.

And then everything goes to Hell.

The electricity suddenly cuts out, leaving only the wavering candle-light. Their panting breaths are loud in the darkness. Kris's eardrums are ringing and he wonders hysterically if saying 'Stop' would have any effect. He hears it growling and laughing, like a rabid hyena stalking its prey. And then the cabinet doors are ripped off their hinges, pressed wood splintering with the force. The contents—glasses, dishes, cans, pans—all spill onto the linoleum with a prolonged crash, and the living room windows rattle in their frames.

"Kris," Joseph says, his eyes drifting to look at something over Kris's shoulder, in the dark of the living room.

It's coiled, tensed, ready to strike. "It's coming," Kris chokes. "_Adam_!"

And suddenly it's _there_, nowhere else but right there on the table in front of him, and he's trapped, paralyzed as it licks its fangs, leans closer.

"Hail Mary, full of grace," Theresa begins, and Joseph and Michael quickly join her, "the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."

"Kris, _Kris_!"

They chant louder, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Hail Mary, full of grace."

Theresa's gasping between sentences, a whimper as she breathes.

This is the end.

"Oh God, _stop it_!" Adam yells, wrenching his hand free of Kris's locked fist and trying to pull Kris's chair away from the table.

Theresa grabs a handful of powder from the bowl in front of her and throws it on the table, the powder igniting off the candles with a yellow flash that blinds them all.

But Kris can breathe again, can gasp and choke, blink against the retinal flares and the smoke spitting off the candles, and realize the electricity is back, the lamp in the foyer is on and glowing with 75 watt soft white light. The microwave is beeping to be reprogrammed. The _thing_ is gone.

"Holy shit," Adam whispers, and Kris follows his pointing finger to the shadow burned into the wall, a black shape the size of a large dog, an arm extended toward Kris. Claws.

Joseph turns around to see and gapes, fumbling for his iPhone and knocking it off the table.

Adam is cupping the back of Kris's neck, anchoring him as the adrenaline spike works its way through his bloodstream. Kris's skin is alive with electricity, he's tingling all over, especially across his chest.

He looks down and finds four long slashes in his t-shirt, from his right shoulder down to his left side. His shoulder stings and there are four lines of blood pooling in the fabric, staining the grey cotton at his shoulder. It got him. It's real and it touched him, cut him, and there's a rushing sound in his ears and his heart is trying to jump out of his chest but his legs feel heavy, useless. He can't stop staring as the red stripes grow, taking over each thread and merging into one larger stain.

"Kris? Oh no-"

"Get him out of here," Theresa orders.

Adam stops hovering and grabs Kris, hauls him from the chair and out the door of the condo, running him down the steps until they're on the sidewalk where Adam squeezes Kris's shoulder between two palms to stop the bleeding.

"It got its claws," Kris says, barely hearing his own voice over the frantic gallop of his heartbeat. He stands there, staring blindly at nothing, thinking he should be dead. If it can touch him, it can kill him. The next time it gets its claws on him, it's going to finish it.

It takes a long time for Kris's heartbeat to quiet enough that he can finally hear again. And when he can, he squeezes his eyes shut and rocks toward his lover, toward the words he wants to hear.

"Fire," Adam is promising in his ear, voice strained and harsh over the pounding of Kris's pulse. "We'll throw a block party, invite all the neighbors. When everyone's outside, you'll clear out all the pets and I'll lay down the gasoline and we'll finish this fucker off once and for all."

The moon is out, lighting the tops of the buildings and cars around them. Adam's got him under one of the streetlamps and they're ringed in light, moths flitting over their heads. "I didn't feel it cut me," Kris manages to say, surprised at the steadiness of his voice. "Not until after."

Adam tips his forehead against him and takes a deep, unsteady breath.

Kris comes back into himself bit by bit, until he realizes he hasn't even seen the damage, doesn't know how bad he's hurt. He pushes Adam's hands away urgently and Adam understands, helps him lift the thin shirt over his head, the Saint Christopher medallion jangling on his wrist. Kris swipes at the blood smeared on his shoulder with the ruined t-shirt and frowns, trying to get a better angle.

It's...it's nothing. They're barely more than scratches, not deep at all, breaking the skin up by his shoulder and trailing off as raised welts across his chest. "Oh my god," Kris says, relief warring with the horror that it still _touched him_, crossed a void to get at him. At _him_.

Adam wraps both arms around Kris and hugs him hard. "That's it, that's the worst that's gonna happen, I promise," Adam says, his promises as appealing and futile as ever.

They look up when they hear footsteps in the quiet, Michael leading Theresa and Joseph down the steps, all of them seeming just as shell-shocked as Kris feels. They gather under the streetlamp, Theresa looking particularly shaken by the bloody marks on Kris. "I'm sorry," she says.

"Sorry?" Adam demands, shrill and brittle.

"Adam," Kris soothes. He looks at Theresa. "You saw it. You know what it is."

She shakes her head. "I don't know _what_ that was. I've never encountered anything like it. I know it was never human—this is no ghost. But this isn't the way the loa behave. It had _form_. It crossed the threshold and _touched_ you."

Kris shudders. "Tell me you know what to do."

"I think..." she hesitates. "I think we need to do a lot more research before the next ritual."

Even Michael Dee looks shocked at that.

"Another?" Adam shouts. "You mean you wanna try that _again_? No way. I'm not letting you put Kris in front of that thing again. All your prayers, your charms," he grabs the amulet around Kris's neck and shakes it at her, "your snake, they were for shit!"

"But you at least have an idea, right?" Kris pleads. "_Some_ idea what it was, how to get rid of it? You sent it away with that powder, can't you use that somehow?"

Theresa and Michael look at each other helplessly, shaking their heads. The iPhone clicks and Kris realizes Joseph is photographing his bare chest.

"This is. No. This is _not fair_," Kris shouts, starting to lose it. They were his only hope and they're completely worthless. "Why me? Why does it want _me_ so bad? What the hell did I ever do to deserve this?" He pulls the amulet over his head and throws it across the parking lot. "I can't live like this. I can't have this _thing_ tied to me, _waiting_ for me." No one speaks. "If you've _really_ got nothing, then I'm going with the only option that has a chance of working." They can't meet his eyes, so Kris turns in Adam's arms and says, his mind made up, "We're going with _your_ plan."

"What's your plan?" Joseph asks Adam, intrigued.

"Burn the fucker down," Kris says with grim determination.

Adam marches Kris a few steps away, hisses, "Baby, not in front of witnesses."

And _oh shit_, Kris had momentarily forgotten the whole arson-is-a-felony portion of the plan. And he's just announced it, _premeditated_ it in the middle of the development.

"No, you can't!" the professor yelps, running around Adam to get to Kris. "This is- this is a brush with the divine! This is proof of another plane of existence. Life after death, the supernatural—we don't know what it is yet!"

"You heard it," Kris points out. "It's not an angel, it's a demon."

"It's a monster," Adam snaps.

"It's _amazing_," Joseph insists. "You _can't _destroyit. It's too important to the world. We have to experience everything it can-"

"It's trying to kill me!" Kris yells. "What the hell am I supposed to do? I've got this fucking albatross around my neck trying to rip my guts out, and I can't sell it, I can't get foreclosed, I can't destroy it, and I sure as fuck can't live there, so what the hell am I supposed to do? It's _my_ home, _my_ responsibility, and I have no clue what to-"

"You can sell it to me," Joseph begs, catching hold of his hand.

"What? No I can't," Kris shoves him away, Adam's arms going tense around him.

"Why not? I know what's in there. I felt it. I heard it. I'll research it, like Theresa wants. I'm not going to let anyone else go in there until I've figured out how to control it. I'm not afraid of it—I know what I'm doing..."

Adam turns to the two voodoo experts, "What do you think?"

They both shrug.

"He can't-" Kris starts to protest, but Theresa cuts him off.

"Joseph knows almost as much about voodoo history and practices as I do, plus a whole host of other religions." The professor nods vigorously. "He's...maybe a little crazy for wanting to take this on, but I think of all of us he's most capable of approaching this with an open, rational mind."

"I'm completely serious about this," Joseph presses. "I'll get more help and document everything. I won't take unnecessary risks, and I'll get to the source of whatever that thing is."

"And if there's a book in there..." Theresa pins the professor with a suspicious frown.

Joseph tries and fails to look completely innocent. His fingers tighten around his phone protectively.

"I'm sure he'll credit you in the Author's Notes," she says firmly.

"Of course! Of course, if you'll allow me. And money isn't an obstacle. I've got an advance coming, plus savings. I'll pay any price you want."

"_Any_ price," Adam echoes.

Kris drags Adam away by his wrist, getting some space so he can tell Adam to stop listening to the crazy professor. "There's no way I can sell," Kris says when they're standing between an old Ford Explorer and a tiny, beat up Volkswagen on the opposite side of the lot.

Adam puts his hands on his shoulders and pushes Kris down to sit on the curb, squeezes next to him in the small space between the two front bumpers. "Yes, you can."

"_No_, Adam. The guy's insane. He saw what it did in there, what it did to _me_, and he wants to move in?"

"He didn't say anything about moving in," Adam corrects him. "He said he wants to _study_ it."

"Why? It's obviously evil. He should want to _kill_ it."

"Maybe he does. Maybe he will. But what difference does it make?"

"I have to be sure it's gone. I have to kill it-"

"No, _you don't_. You just have to stop it from hurting anybody. You don't have to do any more than that. And _Dr. Kielce_ is willing to take on that burden _for you_."

"But..."

"He said he won't let anyone else get hurt. You don't believe him?"

Kris's chest burns and he feels like crying. Too many impossible things have happened to him, been asked of him tonight, he can't even think straight.

"You know it makes sense. Why are you holding onto it?" Adam asks, rubbing his back.

"I don't...I don't know," he admits, leaning against Adam's shoulder. "I hate it so much, and it scares me so bad."

"Then walk away. He'll take the responsibility. He knows what he's getting into."

Part of him is gibbering and pleading to run away from the terrifying unknown that's hunting him. And he's ashamed that he might agree out of that selfish fear. "If I say yes, it's because I'm too scared to face it myself."

"No, it's because we're not the right people to deal with this. We're out of our league; that thing's way too big for us to handle. Joseph's the right guy for the job. It _makes sense_."

And maybe it does, but it's still the easy way out. And what would Adam think of him—what would he think of _himself_ if he did it? "I gotta be able to live with this."

"You're not doing anything bad by saying yes," Adam says, kisses his ear. "You were never meant to be in this position. Let the right guy have the job."

Indecision tips 10% in favor of selling the condo, and that's the best Kris can come up with tonight. He nods, tears welling up, relief or stress, he can't tell. "Yes," he says.

When they rejoin the group, Kris fidgets, says, "Are you absolutely sure you can handle that thing-"

But Adam just blurts, "$165,000, as-is."

Kris takes a sharp breath because Adam knows he paid barely over $100,000 for the foreclosure three months ago.

Joseph sticks out a hand to Adam, corrects and sticks it out to Kris. "Fantastic. It's a deal."

Adam nudges Kris and he reaches out his hand, feeling numb, feeling isolated and alone, until Joseph grabs his wrist and shakes his hand, pumps his fingers with warm, steady hands.

And like that, the responsibility shifts. It's as if something tangible flows between them, draining out of Kris's body and passing into Joseph's. Kris feels empty and nervous in its wake, but he no longer feels trapped. In fact, he's suddenly aware that he no longer _belongs_ here, no longer feels like he has to stick around.

"Do you wanna get any more stuff out before we leave?" Adam asks.

Kris shakes his head, letting go of Joseph's hand. "I don't want anything that's still in there." He looks solemnly at the professor. "As far as I'm concerned, it all belongs to you. You can do whatever you want with it."

Joseph beams and announces he'd like to get a photo of himself and Kris. "Adam, would you do the honors?"

They roll down the windows as they pull out of the development for the last time a few minutes later, letting in the crisp autumn night. The marshes smell sweet, the humid breezes soft against his hand as it glides through the turbulence of the drivers side mirror. The air curls against his bare skin, and Kris actually laughs at the memory of Joseph's parting request to keep his ripped and bloodied shirt as evidence.

Adam notices and says, "You're smiling."

"Yeah."

"It's over."

"Yeah, I think it really is."

"And we didn't even have to commit a federal crime."

"The gasoline would've ruined your cuticles," Kris agrees thankfully.

"Oh my god, I love you," Adam sighs, relief thickening his voice. "After the night we've had, you can still make jokes."

Kris's throat is tight but his smile just gets wider. "It's either laugh or cry. Cause technically I'm back to being a homeless guy looking for a place to crash. This feels an awful lot like square one."

"You're not homeless; you live with me."

"I don't move in with people after one date."

Adam twists in his seat and puts a hand on Kris's thigh. "How 'bout after the second?"

**   
  
**

_20 months later..._

When Kris gets home on Friday evening the first thing he smells is the chemical burn of nail polish, the stink of it filling the entire apartment. He bites his tongue and instinctively makes sure the door doesn't slam, catching it with his heel before pulling it closed behind him.

Adam's in the living room with the TV on, bent over the coffee table. "Hey, babe!" he calls.

"What's going on?" Kris calls back, half-hearted. He doesn't step into the living room—heads straight for the kitchen fridge instead.

"Oh my god, it's so awesome; Simon gave us the go ahead for Daisy's Joan Collins extravaganza next Saturday!"

Kris pulls out a beer and twists off the lid, sets the bottle on the counter. He looks out the window at the other luxury apartment buildings surrounding Metairie Square and starts unbuttoning his brown plaid shirt. "Who's buying the turbans?" he asks, even though he knows he shouldn't.

"Daisy and I are driving to The Empire Waistland tomorrow. You wanna come?"

Kris pauses as he pulls off his shirt, hands balling into fists around the fabric. "And have you asked Simon about reimbursement for the cost of all your costumes?"

Adam sighs loud enough that Kris can hear it in the kitchen. "He already said_ last year_ that's why our salaries are so high. He's not gonna change his mind just cause we ask again."

Kris turns with his beer and faces out over the breakfast bar, watching the side of Adam's head as he bends to lay another careful swipe of color on his hand. "No, they're so high so he doesn't have to give you medical insurance. You're just contractors, not employees."

"Oh, come on-" Adam's voice has the unhappy edge that Kris needs.

"You've been dancing on that beer-soaked stage for two years. You're _lucky_ you haven't had an accident yet. Look at Frankie-"

"That was just a sprain-"

"And next time it'll be Daisy's knee, or your back. And we're gonna have to pay out of-"

"Stop right there," Adam cuts him off sharply. "You _always _push this button when you're upset with me. So what is it? What's eating you?" Adam finishes his nails, throws an arm over the edge of the couch to glare at him.

Kris takes a long sip, stalling.

"Kris," Adam prods. "That was a dead giveaway. Just tell me why you're upset and we'll deal with it. What'd I do?"

It's unfair that Adam can read him this well.

"Don't make me come over there."

Kris relents with a sigh, kicks his shoes off and wanders over in his t-shirt to join Adam on the couch. "I wanted a date night," he says quietly, tries to keep the sulk out of his voice.

"We can go out," Adam protests.

"You have to be at Simon's in three hours. And these..." Kris picks up Adam's right hand and threads their fingers together, carefully keeping the wet, glittering gold nails separated. They'll take at least 15 minutes to set, and then another hour before Adam can risk coming into contact with anything textured. They can't even fool around for at least 45 minutes.

"Oh," Adam murmurs when he gets it, looking at their joined hands. "I didn't _know_," he insists.

"I know," Kris admits, giving up on the fight he was looking for.

Adam leans in and kisses his temple.

"Today was hard," Kris says, not an apology, but the explanation Adam needs.

"You wanna tell me about it?"

"Not yet. I'm still not sure how I feel."

He'd been so excited when Martin had told him somebody wanted to buy one of his songs. After no response to an entire album's worth of demos for six months, it felt like Christmas to actually get that call. He'd been looking forward to meeting the buyer for the past _week_. He'd just...expected someone who wouldn't have to rely on pitch correction to stay in tune. But royalties are royalties, and Kris's dream of selling his music is contingent on actually letting someone _buy_ it, so he's happy, really. He just wishes he could block out his guilty conscience nagging that the song deserves better.

"Tell me tomorrow?" Adam asks.

Kris nods.

"I'm sorry we can't go out."

"Don't be. It's my fault I didn't call."

"Yes it is," Adam agrees, tugging their hands up and kissing Kris's knuckles. "So what do you want for dinner, since it looks like we're ordering in."

Kris sighs and pulls his phone out of his pocket with his free hand. "Lo mein."

"Sounds good."

After Kris orders the food he props his feet up on the coffee table and puts their hands on his thigh, Adam's nails facing up so they won't get imprinted with the grooves of his jeans. "How was last night? How'd the new Prince song go?" he makes himself ask, trying to cheer up for his boyfriend's sake. It's not like he's gonna pay attention to whatever lame scifi movie Adam's watching.

Adam's face lights up. "Frankie said it was _to die for_. Simon liked it, too. I think the crowd was into it. I could've hit the high F's better, but I was thinking about too much at once, trying to work with the live snake. I think with a little more practice it'll be perfect."

Kris smiles, stretches his fingers under Adam's. "Good. I'm proud of you. You gonna do it when I can watch?"

"Totally. How 'bout next Saturday?"

"Isn't that Joan Collins Night?"

"What's wrong with Joan holding a snake?"

"Nothing," Kris grins despite himself, shaking his head. It would either be epically hot or a complete disaster. Since it's Adam, Kris bets on the former. "But I'm just thinking, you know, wearing a turban, the crowd might think you're playing a literal snake charmer."

Adam sucks a breath through his teeth. "I didn't think of that. Um. How 'bout the week after?"

"Yeah, how 'bout that," Kris agrees.

"Oh, and Neil called this afternoon; he's going to a wedding in Miami next week and he wants to spend Wednesday night with us."

"Great! Did you tell him I convinced Martin to sell me that record he needs?"

"Yeah, funny thing: I told him you had the record, and _then_ he started talking about visiting."

Kris squeezes Adam's hand and teases, "Don't be jealous just cause your brother has more in common with me than with you."

"I have our entire childhood in common," he sniffs.

"And I have a vintage pressing of John Coltrane with the Miles Davis Quintet." Kris waits for Adam to pout before laughing and leaning over to kiss that protruding lower lip, brushing blue-black hair out of his way so he can taste the chapstick. "Does he wanna crash on the couch, or at my place?"

Kris's apartment is basically just a practice studio, since he never sleeps there and only uses it when he needs a quiet place to write. It's a waste of good rent money, but Kris hadn't been ready to _officially_ move in with Adam after he'd sold the condo. So many times during his marriage he'd wished he had a place to disappear to. Getting a place for himself—even if he never used it—had felt like the right thing to do at the time.

With Adam's and his two-year anniversary coming up, though...Kris thinks it's past time he gave it up. If anything, the saved money will help pay for the medical insurance neither of them gets from work. And there goes his brain, circling back to the fight he no longer wants to have tonight.

"Couch," Adam announces, answering a question Kris has already forgotten he asked. "Otherwise we'll have to drive him back and forth."

Kris isn't listening because something on the television screen has caught his eye: an image from his past, low-slung buildings with brick façades.... He grabs the remote and turns up the volume.

"The next episode of _Ghost Hunters_ travels to a New Orleans condo development to investigate the haunting that inspired the best-selling book _Scientific Proof of the Supernatural: Case Study and Documentation of a Violent Haunting_, and the upcoming major motion picture _A Night with the Devil _starring Shia LaBeouf. Grant &amp; Jason visit with professor and celebrity author Dr. Joseph Kielce, who claims he doesn't dare spend the night in his own home. Find out if this new local-legend is real or not, on the next _Ghost Hunters_...."

They sit in stunned silence, ignoring the Progressive Insurance commercial that follows, both of them reliving the events of 20 months ago.

Until Kris shakes his head and gasps, "A _movie_?" because he already knew about the book's success—had firmly declined Joseph's offer of a thank you check when the sales started taking off—but Jesus Christ, a Hollywood film deal? That's bordering on war-profiteering. Kris either wants to thank Joseph for the thousandth time for freeing him from his demon, or punch him for turning Kris's hell into a runaway cash cow; he can't tell which.

"_Ghost Hunters_!" Adam sounds strangled. "That was totally _my_ idea!"

And Kris remembers a conversation on Bourbon Street, Adam laughing at him, telling him they'd get through it together. "You did. You called it," he groans, hearing a million I-told-you-so's in his future.

"And Shia LaBeouf?! You are _way_ cuter than him."

"You don't think _I'm_ in the movie, do you?"

"Well, he's either playing _you_ or one of those undergrads Joseph sent in there last year to do 'research.' If it's you, you've gotta get a lawyer and a cut of the ticket proceeds. There's _no way_ he can cut you out."

"Oh my god, Adam," Kris says, appalled. "Wait. What are you doing?"

Adam pecks gingerly at the remote control buttons. "I'm DVR'ing it, duh. I am _not_ missing this."

"Oh my God," Kris groans again, releasing Adam's other hand to cover his face. His left palm is sweaty from the hand-holding. He takes a long pull from his beer instead.

"And you felt bad about taking his money at settlement," Adam reminds him. "That Joseph. Damn. He's one crafty bastard."

Adam finishes programming the DVR and they watch the flickering images on the screen in silence, Kris working through his complicated emotional response to the commercial. In a way, he's glad for the reminder of what he'd escaped; it helps put his lousy day in perspective. He'd had a bad day, yeah. He'd come home spoiling for a fight, yeah. But none of that stuff actually matters.

Because he's sold his first song, and when he starts selling more he'll be able to take fewer sessions, can change his schedule so he isn't asleep when Adam gets home, isn't leaving while Adam's still in bed, day after day. And at the end and the beginning of the day, that's what's most important to him. So what does it matter if Joseph is cashing in on Kris's former-misery? It's already gotten Kris out of debt, gotten him Adam...maybe Joseph hasn't been the only one benefiting.

"I know what I have to do," Kris announces.

"What's that?"

"It was _your_ idea, actually," Kris hints. "You have all the good ideas."

"Get a good lawyer?" Adam asks, rubbing his palm over Kris's knee, consoling.

He shakes his head.

"So tell me already."

Kris lets a slow, satisfied smile ease across his lips and plays with the Saint Christopher necklace wrapped around Adam's wrist. "Find out who's producing the soundtrack for that movie. Cause Joseph owes me a really big favor and I'm gonna call it in."

**   
  
**

THE END

**   
  
**

**[Download: Community Rules for Hauntings playlist](http://www.sendspace.com/file/qdpfob): **  
01 - The Editors - In This Light And On This Evening  
02 - SoulSavers - Ghosts Of You And Me  
03 - CALLmeKAT - Flower In The Night  
04 - Afterhours - Il Sangue Di Giuda  
05 - The Gutter Twins - Spanish Doors  
06 - Amon Tobin - Bloodstone  
07 - Patrick Wolf - Ghost Song  
08 - Gorillaz - White Light  
09 - Rob Zombie - The Ballad Of Resurrection Joe &amp; Rosa Whore  
10 - Brand New - Sink  
11 - Modest Mouse - Satin In A Coffin  
12 - Sunset Rubdown - A Day In The Graveyard II  
13 - The Leisure Society - The Darkest Place I Know  
14 - Frightened Rabbit - Keep Yourself Warm  
15 - Grace Jones - Corporate Cannibal  
16 - Portishead - Wandering Star  
17 - Black Rebel Motorcycle Club - As Sure As The Sun  
18 - Brand New - At The Bottom  
19 - The Gaslight Anthem - The Navesink Banks  
20 - Daniel Lanois - Amazing Grace  
21 - SafetySuit - Find A Way  
22 - The Used - Smother Me  
23 - Alabama 3 - Strange  
24 - Kenna - Within Earshot  
25 - The Sound Of Arrows - A Very Sad Song  
26 - Stars - The Night Starts Here


End file.
